I wander, looking, not feeling. Experiencing but remembering nothing. The taste is gone, bland are the fire scorched courses of your love. I wander around the echoing rooms of passions castle, now dusty; spiders find their comfort in the sedentary atmosphere, catching their supply and watching the inactivity with many points of view. My meandering desire leads me to other lands; stepping on the thorns of my morality, my feet are hesitant to find the new, knowing it violates the old. Satisfaction, though fleeting, is found in the trysts. It's so easy to find excuses when we are dilapidated; rotten and broken planks on the floor, squeaking my intentions. Shoving the rusted door of our haven, the hinges protest in loud eery cries, giving up their life in broken protest; they can no longer bear the lack of attention. Revelations are born in tense moments, your eyes meet mine and the truth wants to be spoken, yet it remains hidden; these are haunting times. Lovers find it hard to pull the trap door on the hangman's rig; to see their intimacy in death throes, struggling at the end of the rope of boredom. The sun rises, a strong wind blows, a storm is coming; it hits hard and washes away the mementos of years, bringing relief. Nature does what I loath to do, destroying the useless and dangling appendages of a dead love, giving birth to hope on the dry and barren paths. In this newness I linger, amazed at what comes from the death of a love; like the death of a seed, it breaks the hardened ground with fingers of new passion, restoring my faith and blinding me again with lust unconfined and unexplored.
First written in Opinionsofeye.com