Wednesday, 15 November 2017

The Telephone


Pic for Representation purpose


I clutch on this cord for dear life- awaiting a call that's not to come-
That brings no more of whispers sacred, that the night shies away from,
That coveted the tender ardor of my breaths that grew ragged,
That spoke of dreams carnal that craved a mere touch, and wept.

It rings no more; derides my ears that with keenness aflame bleed,
Jeers my heart that so blithely into your ocean had lunged, and I wouldn't even breathe,
And drowned in ecstasy pure and untamed; and what would be left
Of prudence is cut loose, and to cave I no longer fret.

No longer am I to hearken to musings that in your heart had welled.
That oft erupt like poetry of a poet scorned and wretched.
I feel the clouds lift, as together would we curse and lament.
In peals of mirth would we fall and in beatitude we drenched.

It chimes no more so to your songs of moonlight I would smile
That earthly mortals to hear deserve not: music so sublime,
That crooned of kisses stolen and souls like broken dolls left in stitches,
Of piety unrequited and the fire that sets the woods alight when we embrace.

My fingers to dial do  dare, your confessions to hear.
How long does a beast in the desert live? How long do your deceit I bear?
The scars on my chest to forget I could myself bring. Warmly forgive
And anew let shoots spring I could make us believe.

Do bless me hence, do not of these years of dereliction speak
But enchant this divested spirit with a song lush and sweet.
Through the telephone that you pick, breathe life into this frigid flesh's core.
Engulf and burn me whole, so we can come clean once more.