Sat here in my cloistered
calm but reckless room
I wonder what you fear?
Are you afraid that passion’s bloom will somehow
warmly wildful interfere with your old controlled and
perfect ordered mind in such a way that you will lose
that cool composure you have taken years to find?
Perhaps you think our future conversation’s flow
will flap your ears so fast you’ll leave the ground
and lose the opportunity to grow the only way you
seem to think you should (a totem etched in wood)
Your ruffled feathers frankly would be fun to see
for preened and practised plumes when endlessly
rehearsed no matter how deep-coloured or diverse
will soon become freeze-dried — devoid of poetry
And so I iterate: Embrace my outstretched hand
Release yourself from obsolete constraints imposed
by masquerading engrams’ underland and fly to corners
new and brightly lit (where secret parts of us can fit)
Standing to attention
now I wonder if you’ll
mirror my dimension?
© Alan Morrison, 2015