Moj Kochanie

In darkness I am far unwoven,

thrust against and into grain;

fostered unrelentingly.

To listen, to choose:

I've none but destiny;

the pull of blood

from in my bones,

it calls to me.

Sugary sweet, but tepid ahead

are the visions that I create.

And soft, unspoken emptiness

is ice; restraint.

But forward holds a different place

from anything I've seen:

Hollows filled with browning leaves,

ageless whisperings,

dug firmly into place;

crushed solely from these things.

Mirage or freedom: both are here,

both are underneath;

both inundating, still;

both are willow trees.

In spite, I palpitate your name,

I writhe and fall and seethe.

In spite, I throw it forward still,

to hope for everything.

And I laugh at the absurdity,

at every luscious following;

the painted, prismatic breeze:

the way you call to me.