SCORCHED TERRAIN

I’ve said the things that should have remained unspoken
and dwelt on your ideas in my head that nearly engulf
the pulsing tremors of our mutual heartbeats, unbroken.
Your vibrations cause strokes. They throb, ebb. Enough.

Your countenance is a truth that I’ve come to admire.
Its appeal intends to redesign my meagerest blunders.
A heart’s consent, yours, is one I’ve had to aspire
to obtain. To beseech my appetite. To invoke wonders

upon my ego. A conscience dissected; of flesh, marrow,
and bones brittled, from which the dreamful dollops
of reverie blotched, is your flawless mind: a narrow
self that curses. – Taints upon my eagerest sonnets. –

Perhaps I did not say them enough or aloud nor apprise
my earthy efforts from your eventual, ignited demise.