Nothing can stop the unquenchable fire,
fed by the flame of the deepest desire.
 
Born of a purpose, intent that is true
in the one who's determined to do what they do.
 
One who believes it can always be done.
One who won't quit till the battle is won.
 
One who gets up every time that they fall.
One who dreams big, regardless how small
 
they may seem in this world of confusion and doubt.
No, nothing can stop one who's figured it out –
 
that the universe bends to the purpose and fire
of the one who holds true… to their deepest desire.

I stand atop your tower
built from words we no longer share—
my soul once peered, admired and awed,
with your star-struck heart
and a knight in shining armor jones—
now I suffer a thousand-yard stare
of a battle-weary tease.

I wait above, hands empty,
wondering if the air between us
has always been this thin.
I watch as the horizon deepens,
stretching from dusk to dawn—
a vigil with no end.

Not a mislaid would-be princess in sight,
never that—but something smaller—
only unemployed, starved dickens
defeating the scorched countryside—
souls eager for your ravaged ***** and spilt milk,
roaming roads where you left behind
dusty footprints and battles long surrendered.

The stones are smooth,
each one perfect in its place.
Your walls press against the clouds,
against my patience—
I am put to shame,
exposed to a dead language.

My mind and body grow rampant—
I dream of what might happen
if the mortar gave way,
if bricks tumbled,
and all this distance crumbled—
to feel the earth under my hands again,
and paint you in moss and ginger,
dust and grit grounding my fingertips—
remembering all that once was.

I am torn—
between the sacred and the scarce,
between walls that claw at the heavens
and the raw ache below.

There is a kind of holiness here,
even in the dirt and dust—
the way it rises, coats my skin,
fills my lungs.
I think of your hands—
how they might feel,
how they left me in shreds—
drenching me in wet dreams.

And though I wait,
against your impossible walls,
I know the truth—
even the strongest tower
will crumble,
even the loneliest heart
will fall to the ground.

In the summer,
everything is ripe
The white peaches perfume the air
In my hand, their fuzz
like the vellus hair
Around your neck

It’s winter now
And the fruit has shrunken
The flesh has grown leathery
The sugars concentrated
I put one in my mouth
And felt your hardened ******* on my tongue

She spoke like silk,
Each note of her cadence mellifluous,
Like poured honey,
Or creamy caramel,
Coaxing Obsequious vibratos
Annoying synapses to fire steam engines,
Perspiring pores pour-over,
Lost in the scent of the petrichor
While the heart beats like jazz drums,
Off rhythm but always on key.

She is Aphrodite in the flesh,
Pulchritudinous personified
Her body teases,
With the flick soft susurrus of each silken strand
As it falls over her white marbled face,
Rose flushed cheeks perk with a gentle smile,
I am enraptured unequivocally.

Please raze me,
Burn me in your ineffable stare,
I am but a sacrifice for your ephemeral grace,
Given to me in a hushed moment, evanescent
And in the very pyre of my embers,
Ashes redolent with a hint of leather and desperation,
Forever ensnared even in ghastly vapor,
I am but a humble apparition
Timelessly chasing the moon,
Lost to axiomatic fantasies -
A transient tryst amid mists.