This Present Madness

The Present Madness


A scent in the air
as she enters the room,
sweet and indefinable
yet fixed in the memory
like the intensity
of freshly hewn summer grass.

As if with swollen tongue,
I am incapable of speech
once her entrance is made,
left only with vagaries
about the weather and time
at the expense of true emotion.

If my heart were a harp,
she would be the force
that causes strings to pulse,
vibrations eddying across
to create a melody that moves
even a cynic to weep.

And even if there wasn't love
within her to be returned,
she would still be a tourniquet
stemming the flow of blood
from the wounds of the past
and injuries yet to come.