Mistress

May the strength of three be in your journey.
Irish Toast

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Mistress

Sweet mistress
of my secular desire;
the black sarcophagus
envelopes your soul.
Your dreams
of narcoleptic madness
intercede
the complexities
of sensuality;
placidness returns
to my soul.
And yet
we still cry
amongst our demons,
angels,
and desires;
there is no sweet silence
to our end,
as trees whisper
their poetry
within the vernal winds,
filling the chasm
of winter’s silence,
as the everlasting silence,
encompasses the void
of an erotic soul,
throughout the evermore.
The unforgiven
curse infinity.
Time becomes
a redundancy of existence.
Dance, my mistress, dance…I taste your sensualities
Dance, my mistress, dance…I taste your sensualities
Dance, my mistress, dance…I taste your sensualities
Time is finite,
Heaven is theoretical,
And desire
is nothing more
than a wanton machination
of flesh
At some future point in time
yet to been defined…

EjG

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And the Scribe said to Solomon, “What is your interpretation of this?”
To which Solomon replied, “The literal is misleading, the philosophical is deceiving, and the mythological is ideological.”
“Who’s your mistress, Solomon?”
“Hope,” said Solomon, looking at the sunset. “And yours?”
“Desire,” the Scribe said, reflectively. “Desire.”
Icarus said nothing.