Thirst that could not be given any other name

A surprise even for saturated lichen

To make its move on wounded alders

That spoke less of fortitude

More of purity from casualty

Shedding leaves like bad habits

Only the possum knows its limits

How far hatred could slime it

A blot on the mind warp

Crimson tremors left shackled

Until even oil resurfaces

Like dreams yet to be forgiven

There is madness in the overtouch

A right saved only for virgin fuselage

Nearing the end of Nirvana

Do we seek shelter from sheer likeness

Of what golden stillness we used to be

Before inertia got bored of us

And left with our soulboots still singing

Oh ~ ~  the sweet sound of abused nectar

And yet we continue making love

To shadows who only whisper

Our ancient, forgotten demise

*•.¸♥♥¸.•*

© Susan Joyner-Stumpf

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