The truest bliss you impart upon me
sends a shiver down each column of my spine,
etching track marks over all my body,
a drug no-one can perfect or refine.
Your visage leaves lightning bolts on my eyes
and a heart palpitating in my chest.
Your body silhouetted in night skies
melts my deepest poetry to mere jest.
When we touch, it smashes my composure
into oblivion and far beyond.
When we lock eyes, I'm chilled from exposure
but for certain, only I feel this bond.
Although I strive for a day we would meet,
with the others, I could never compete.

O dear Morpheus, for thy rest be no disturbance in thee?
For thy sole ideas be neither order nor structure in flow?
Fear I sense for thy sacrèd inmost sanctum closes its eye.

Deep tensions draw the shoulds and hold so much
While hells are made from can’ts and still-might-be’s
With magic care great weeds and blooms are ******
Upon real earth, no final fantasies
What does she owe herself and so the rest?
I strain to view but maybe it’s unclear
Though few embraced those true but hollow jests
well hewn from mind as sharply filled with fear
For needling help the price of scars she paid
She brought them forth, in love she did enlist
Defying self, unworthy world was stayed
Creating joy in order to exist
And now to hold us, tend the garden too
Is what we all need mothers' hands to do.