love in idleness

Forty nights I have foolishly dreamt this piece—

Pink and gold frothing over sleepy bonds of worth.

A bank upon the riverside shall make a homely bed,

When outrunning one's desire begins to overtax,

And it will, it will, it will.

Puce-black leaves wink at me like vaunty owls,

Beguiles a voluptuous slumber—

These cries from the heart, permitted to twist in sleep

By no volition of my own—

But by a thing more constant than myself.

I am pursued by a 5'8 fleshly goddess,

That when I slip so deep feels nearly tangible—

In this, this state of hollow realness – dreams pouring

Embrocation down my ear,

Viola tricolour up and along these hallowed lids.

Torn up bit by bit with the heart’s piteous syndrome.

It is so, so much.

Proud Demetrius punished with love by loving incorrectly.

Suppose I be some horrendous female counterpart.

I wish ne’er to wake into actuality—

It quite frankly works to bore me.

I have no personal alphabet,

Everything jumbled up, chemicals flailing jauntily

Pon the lashes doused in yen.

Untimely passion riddles the blood—

Cheeks burgeon red, illegal storm.

Cease it not - thou unholy righteousness!

Bring my Helen to this mortal bower.

No longer will these orbs cry noxious blue,

A love that lone through fantasy, turns true.