A Pining Poem.

95 hours, 14 minutes…

Quite the length of waiting,

A deep longing beyond songs,

Of scorching desires and quaintest satisfaction.

Of feeling, such the touch,

The luring of ecstatic flesh,

The silence of lambs, a mating to hunt,

The slights of rekindle, abode thee.

Heat sears the veins of hanker after,

Delusions commands the search for inkling,

Untainted yet sinned.

To fulfill the yearn of a minding flesh.

Forgive me, my love,

The poet says through a muse,

The gentle playwright to his actor,

Of what sort of manly thoughts, seductive.

Plain as the void searches for answers,

The wandering mind, of a heathen insolence,

Spare the likeness a song for the nymph,

The urge of a fawn, edgy.

The misuse of beliefs,

The coarse and benign impulse,

Indulgence, a cause of iniquity,

Dare a poem to incessant wishes of avarice.

Forgive me,

I bare none of cupidity,

I spare none of sedition,

I wronged of a longing.

I sang a song of flesh and bones,

The pangs of dreams engorging,

The scars of reality, amidst.

Carry on, says the bludgeoned author.