A forward confrontation:
Two mortals watching, ogling in thirst.
Instantly, and in a rush.
Primordial acts: anti-thixophobia.
Taunting and nuzzling in such
A local vicinity of inquiry.
Triumphant, wailing slurs.
Alas, but a murmur: troglodytic.
Solitary, oh, limbs chaotic and aching.

See the depressed deed

Delve deep

Cry, the elegy's creed.

Elsewhere:

Breeds new

Bzz-bees, elm trees, electric eels

Ever-steel freeze

Sweet revenge's creep, then screech

Wed, cheer, speech

Fresh breeze, meets seeds

Frees weeds.

Here:

Wet cheeks, we weep

Regret seeps

Need jeers.

Yes, we bleed

Yet

Every eye never sees

Every remedy. never felt

By the helpless.

Go follow storms hold
   from hot to cold
On soft sorrows sold

For floods shock
  from wool to stock
Of old mans' clock

Lost to strong flow
  from door to roots low
No blooms bold do show

So sooth scorns ghost
  from good grown host
Common honor bonds most

A canvas of paint orchids without colors
no odor nor color
a guitar without chords to play uncord passions
a no-sugar, gross candy
and food without salt
trying to put on a no-fit, way too small ring, and ****** bijoux
pitching hallucinations  
disturbing auditory and visual illusions
without you is all about insanity
a lipogram of taboo words
constant and monotonous anguish
just banal mortality...

(an almost lipogram)

It is missing!
Just as a lost paramour
or a forlorn suitor of a now hollow past,
causing a lack of all glamour.

My lass’s familiar touch hiding
astray in murky clouds of a dulling rainbow,
my writing turns to a wan pallid world
as I scour my mind to supplant this loss.

Assailing yon dragon with quill in hand
I spurn my awaiting angst,
stalking as Orion’s own conspirator
disavowing all doubts of my own ability.

Sallying forth I do not tarry.
Words assault a wall of lofty doubts
born of naught but a foolish phobia.
Scaling mighty ramparts,
my anima’s flight attacks a radiant moon.

Until, with a final onslaught
my thoughts find laconic catharsis.
As twilight’s shroud is found approaching,
with a concluding flourish of a now
worn writing tool,
my lost lass of misty pasts...

returns.

©  S.Loeding
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