There was a furrow stationed on my brow
which disappears when thoughts of you prevail.
Your silences have made me want the now
on which my heart will gladly be impaled.
The honeyed words which drip from your sweet tongue
are like a salve to soothe my withered soul —
a featherbed to mute the smoking gun
so often poised to shoot out of control.
There’s just one cloying quandary in the groove:
How can I know my fantasies are sure
and not just wishful thinking platitudes
but crazy concrete facts which will endure.
That troubled chasm fronting on my head
has filled itself with raw desire instead.
© 2011, Alan Morrison