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Archaeology of the Brain
It's true the tale of desire in impossibility,
What's plagued the lives of malcontented opportunists
Inherently resides in the masochistic subconscious.
She's drawn to me from what used to be.
Hormone infested love
With faint traces of maturity.
Her contours mirror the long forgotten,
The intoxicative effect that preceded intoxication.
Now she slightly brushes strings of my head
That were presumed snapped.
They lie worn, dusty, but intact.
I worry for my state and restraint,
I worry for reminiscence evolving to
The shameful attempt of reliving
Glorified tumultuous days.
Beware of these vengeful suppressions
And how sharp they can be.
How dare you try to protect yourself.
Now you must deal with old issues
Invading contemporary matters.
They will tickle your desire
But combust your morals
And thus you will be tortured
By long-awaited satisfaction,
Which is forever out of reach.
The poem certainly states the
The poem certainly states the emotional complex very well . . . but those last three lines are as chilling a conclusion as any of the great ghost stories in literature can provide. Bravo!
J-Called