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
this is what nothing feels like
copyright r.b.franklin 07/08/06