The Hunted

What trite trembling did negate thy tender troubles? What agony did beckon again and again from surreptitious depths, to assuage the flooding of present regrets, to hammer furiously at unknown desires—yearnings passively vapid and banal. Illicited and vacuous, ignominous the occultation of your hunger for him…for he breathes into your branches—the blazing breath of summer winds—he winks silently in the distant stars exploding—hums your melody in the flute of Schubert Symphony 9, and on your fingertips he persistently remains in pastel pink and stained disdain for mediocrity, for all the complacency—all that is mundane.

 

 

“I did my hair for you…I know you wanted it…and thought of you as I did it,” she said standing softly with her weight mostly on her left foot. Her disheveled locks nestled upwards and some of it in a glorious mess reached down like a shimmering jelly fish atop a chiseled statuesque countenance of a siren sultrily singing without words, without movement, and summoning the heavens beneath her, unknowingly, to drink me down—her undertow.

 

And the moment bellowed forth with still longing, the night it had a bleeding heart, and I was the hunter, and somehow also the hunted.

∞