Midsummer

Dec 10

A poem by Rissa Bennett.

Appetitious impulsivity clings to my desire,

contorts me in my magic mirror.

Do I love with my head, heart, body, or soul

or is this something that I entirely loathe?

Will I find another spellbound lover-

and haunt you from under his covers?

Or will I ache in your absence

and regret outwitting my common sense?

“The course of love never did run smooth”;

it is bumps and curves and little grooves

Do we run away hand in hand?

For surely time will fade us into thick quick sand.

You’ll follow me and raise a heaven of hell,

to die upon the hand you love so well

but the moon and rivers remain sedentary

my head misleads me from this seeming alchemy.

Closer to hate than indifference,

love is the synonym of weakness.

Should I stay with you in this quiet hunger,

for something that won't outlast midsummer?

Broken Promises