The suns come and go, but
One fire-light never evanesces—this
All-consuming inferno fed by
Nether-world emotions, inspired by
The Apollo—you, seated on Kilimanjaro. The
Oracle reluctantly admits I shall
Never see the fate I
Wish so hard for—for the true poet wanders
In perpetual longing, a seeker of
The sensual. I confessed,
However, I am not a
Libertine.
Oh, to be named stepping stone is only
Verisimilitude—you deserve a higher place
Even though your attempts for the same restraint as a
Young stoic, avoiding the tickling of extra-
Ordinarily deft fingers—are as futile as my
Unattainable
Adoration
Rising high above my head, far beyond climbing
Expertise—Futile as
My acrostic prayer: that you sow
Your seed of knowledge with-
In me and then relinquish my muse,
Never to be seized again by so
Sublime a figure, threatening the
Poet’s effacement. Though
I know reality dictates—No,
Romance insists—I leave my being
And my heart
To you,
I don’t think I want either—death is not an
Option here, but
Neither should be this life