nothing

 

where is that land so sweetly basking

in the warmth of a forgotten smile?

why does the road from here to there

turn dark and churlish in the passage?

invitations, transformations, declinations,

are the reasons simply beyond the ken?

turning from such slippery path,

in search of momentary pleasure,

a risky place at best, and foreign

here within this bloodied skin.

…is that all there is?

hasty moist caresses, then furtive

loveless passion along the sorry way,

the first ( or last ), who knows

who cares, it felt good at the time

…or all that there will ever be?

another, another, and then no other

would face this way, much less

dance thus feyly entranced, in such

composition of sweaty embrace

prance, rants

sneak, peek,

cum, go,

glorious

sorrow

this is what nothing feels like

copyright r.b.franklin 07/08/06

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