Desire

 

I have a good imagination.
I can create any situation.
Shape a statue of thoughts
Out of the premonitionary void
I cling to, to make memory.

I wish to wrap myself around
A frame which fits my rare shape.
To swing.
To let myself go.
Fall into the moment.

Encased.
Embalmed.
Engorged.
Trace me.

I am an incomplete canvas.
I lay without certainty.
I look unrealised.
I’d die to be another’s jewel.

Fool am I for stopping together
In sight of the finishing post.
Why?
Reason eludes this day from that.

Fingers defy the current.
Eyes deny the lie.
That I am lost in defence.
I give in.
I retire.
To this beautiful desire.

Written 26th October 1998
(Revised & edited from Journal entry 12/10/98)
Copyright Nicholas Treadwell 2001