Sometimes,
I wonder at myself
my immaturity
my impatience
insecurities
My weapon against the world
and my weakness:
my pride
logics and reasons--the old man at the back of my head
droning,
which I rely on
as much
as that airy fairy
barefooted nymph dancing on diamond dew
grass
green
singing, laughing spitting
fire
spewing tears.
And this new being
a desire
which burns in my groins
and consumes me
my singed hair
and burning eyes
flaming with tears whcihc spring from nowhere
of an unknown origin.
Probably the bastard child of the imagination, fascination, and
biological chemical reactions.
The attraction cannot be pared down to science nor reduced to poetry.
And this fire
cannot be quelled
by either
the wisdom of the old
or the innocence of the young
It is that in between grey
of that indefinable
space
from which its romanticized name
was born
bloody
still with its umblical chord strumming
like those on a guitar or a piano
sending out vibrantions and chills
every time you are next to me
and my wise man and playful nymph falls silent
only this space remains
waiting for you to step forward into that sacred space.