Your body curled close to mine.
Your nutmeg coloured hair folds over my face
Hot cascades of love.
Writing about deep feeling is not easy nowadays.
Romantic bliss degraded like an ancient photograph,
Framed but shoved into a plastic box
Out of mind somewhere in the attic
Where mould eats into bygones.
Porn has become ubiquitous day and night,
Outpacing Superman to the starry heights
Of school yard chit chat - office innuendo -
Sunday sermons against freedom of thought.
Romanticism has lost its razor edge
And can no longer cut deep into the imagination
To carve out poems with words older than time.
Time is a human concept thought up to mock our dreams,
Tarnish bright hopes then chuck them out as garbage.
But my dream of you has been constant since we met,
Your nutmeg coloured hair folding over my face
A hiding place where we can share our secrets.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter,
30th. January - 24th. April 2022.
No comments:
Post a Comment