Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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This lust. It’ll kill.
This quick sting of cupid’s quill.
This longing for the hurry and still.
This caving in and shattered will.

To argue is to fail,
to hold cheap umbrellas against hail
and pray to God with a wail,
a cry, a hunger and skin drawn pale.

Sheet white, sweat glistening,
the wonder if she’s listening.
The drama of love’s christening.
Of logic and desire’s distancing.

So then fall, you blissed-out, stupid fool.
Drop crossed arms and join the duel.
This fight for such fulfilling renewal,
the reawakened heart in a lifeless ghoul.

Treading the land, thunderstruck and dead.
Shoulders crushed by what’s in this head.
Thoughts weighing heavier than steel-enforced lead,
it’s fearsome yearning, its loathsome dread.

Lost in the song of a famished heart;
the melody infectious, each breath is art.
Eyes meet, lips part, days explode in a new start,
cautiously stumbling forward, horse after cart.

Their fingers entwine, as they had in the past
with so many others that couldn’t last, reluctance erased by need’s nuclear blast,
they melt together, a single heart at last.

This love. It’s sin.
This curse they’ve fallen in.
This embrace locking
against chaos and din.

But as it destroys,
taking children from toys,
the whining of the past annoys, shattering poise.

Their good graces fail
as they start their new tale.
Yet a break from misery’s jail,
is the past’s last coffin nail.

It had to be driven,
to return to the living,
sacrifices made, failures forgiven. Smiles earned, scarred hearts now willing
to beat again, justifying this killing.

They know. It’s good.
Winter braved as best they could. Summer welcomed as they should.
Absent pain where they now stood.


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