A class is on the move.
Familiar symbols cast their long shadows on the white screen,
They come and go
As he speaks on, making various gestures,
The listeners paint images on their own;
But this is not all.
The voices are just apologies to the tympanum,
Like the cries of a thousand hungry beggars
Outside His Majesty's palatial gates.
But the King listens only to a symphony,
Played in his heart from memory,
A child prodigy played the castle's damp walls
into liveliness the night before,
The echoes have wound, or have they?
Handel. And the Escapist.
My mind drifts away,
My clock unwinds,
My feet retrace,
And I am at the edge
Of a familiar white bed.
And I miss you again,
Like Love Long Lost.
I feel my feet against the cold floor,
The splash of a thousand golden drops
Against the ever unstill surface,
They come of the fountain
And plunge into the water
Over and over again,
For pleasure unknown.
For love's labours
Are neither measurable nor expressible.
I touch your soft skin again,
My lips caress the strawberry,
My stomach sinks
When your chocolate nails sank deeper,
I wonder if I could taste them.
My hand is disobedient,
Climbing down your back
Strides on the waves.
Loves potion instills further.
The sweet poison is prepared,
And it is hot,
With steam dancing erotically all over the brew,