Waking Desire

Spring’s ache;
a thicket of greenscent,
of wild, vining delights.

I dreamt of you
in a bower of thornless wild rose,
in a bedding of fragrant mosses,
in a twine of budding buttercup
and bittersweet.

Fool’s love,
that which comes in heady,
perfumed and sudden,
a stag’s charge,
all trembling fingers
and dropped-jaw wet panting.

The cry I’ll drive from you
shall rouse the birds to flight,
pulse like the thunder of beating wings, frantic;

your animated slick-lipped howl
shall be the music of midnight and morning,
caught in both sun and moonbeam,
the two of us only motes,
around one another

until we fall
to dust once more.

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About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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