Tempest
There is nothing civilized about love.
Not the way she does it.
A living thing of hoof
and horn. Of dervish whirl
and lunar howl.
She abides in the eye of a season of storms
where there can be no allowance
for abnegation—ask her to deny herself
and you ask the moon to abandon the sky
and orbit instead around your shoelace.
Her love is unfit for polite company.
Prone to violence, subject
to squalls. She goes in for a kiss
and takes out your eyes.
Society will not stand
for such barbarity, will demand
a dress code and Corinthians
which is, of course, a language
she has not learned to speak.
But then again, she will never
lie or vamp or hide behind
starched and lacquered protocol.
What you see is what
she feels.
unrefined. unrestrained. undiluted.
She stomps feet, she seizes hearts
in sticky-fisted strangleholds
then guards her stash like
a dragon’s hoard roaring
MINE and MORE.
The best strategy for survival is to
Get To Her First.
Hunt hard and fast, chase her down
softly like a wild winged thing.
Do not try to tame her.
Gather the Tempest in your arms
and hold her close while she rages
for in her wake follows the purest brilliance
the most dazzling sunlight, the likes of which
exist only in dreamscapes
and Photoshop.
In all your days you will never again
see a love so true.
07.14 | unpublished