Trying to reach for her is unobtainable,
For you are a gaseous ember, too sultry
For my hands to grasp without the secondary
Skin to envelope my fingers that is empathy,
How can such a magnanimous beauty receive
No faults, no inflictions that graze the lobes
Of her blossoming loyalty, an entity so paradoxical,
Morphing from the curious, innocence of
A puppy, her nose dotted with the platonic blush
Of ruby red and hands so fresh to have been hatched
In meadows with laughter and frolicking in the
Schoolyard fields, as elementary children do,
To the voluptuous, seductive confidence that a Goddess
Herself can employ, rewriting the laws of civil spirituality,
As her hips sway, making clergymen fall amidst her
Staff swiveled in the dawns of Michelangelo, as her
Figure is sculpted out of marble, her cold shoulder
Being the icicles within the caverns of Reykjavik.
How can such a dutiful member of the Higher arc
Be seemingly kindred, aware of the scuffling that
Erupts within one's inner thoughts, how can she
Understand, when she outwardly appears so Elitist?
She, she makes my nerves gelatin, whereas if I
Lift off too briefly, my interior may implode from within.
She is Heavenly, the closest instance to the afterlife
I have ever encountered in a shortened embrace,
In a glance across the hall, my olfactory bulb
Ignites when I touch her lavender sheets, a curse,
As I am strangled into every lie she tells me,
Do saints deceit? Do martyrs take back what
They innately lost?
I would soon find the truth in this theorem.
No lover is perfect.
And as I walk into the cathedral, seeing the tapestries,
The window panes of crystal vibrancy,
I lose faith forevermore.
My limbs, with cuts and scrapes, assemble
Into a crucifix, a symbol that no idol
Is escapable inside the house of the deity
Stigmata.
When I believed her to be my prayers answer,
I fall victim to the act of forgiveness.
And until I watch her perish under the confessions she
Made me feast upon, I will always take those
Instances as lies or trickery.
And I will never believe in her again.
The perfect lover will never cease to be real,
But one thing I know for certain,
Is that adoration is simply child's play,
And the minor fraction of infatuation
Always dies away, like the images seen
In ancient texts.
When I lock sight with a girl who feels the same,
We will be eternal, and the tarnished robes
Of what had been, will be cleansed,
Baptism.
YOU ARE READING
Shuttle Bus 17: A Poetry Collection
PoetryPoetry from a discombobulated seventeen year old boy. From falling in love to hating parties to loving where you're from, I/you/he tries to truly understand life's prophecies through writing it all down.
