What if an obsession were exercised, exorcised, excised? |
For years now like a chronic illness, Months will pass in peace only to be swamped by storms of dreams, thoughts, Memories of nothings. Sweet symptoms cloud my mind's eye, Roil through my gut like warm oil tighten my face, make my heart race. What makes this sickness so delicious? The forbidden flavor of "Thou shalt not covet..."? Why do I believe the delicate fruit of your kiss each day Would keep all manner of my ills at bay? Is it merely lust's silken fang that pricks my heart to pang? Or is there truth in these visions of a life spent sailing on starlit summer seas... Oh what if... you weren't... What if... we had... What if... We did anyway. And I'm afraid of what if... Afraid reality would prove a pale mimicry of fantasy awash in waves of remorse dulled by slicks of guilt. Afraid we would be cast adrift with no recourse left but to destroy others' lives To save our own. So afraid, it perhaps is better not to know. Thus thinking, I staunch the fascinating flame sometimes a mere spark often a raging wildfire always consuming every tinder of thought for a moment, or a month. My mind raises a shining blade of righteousness. My heart wearily concedes, subsides to her pyre a subdued ember, never ash. |