Poem: Nature

Nature

“They say lovers are happiest when they are in doubt.”
-The Duchess of Padua, Oscar Wilde

So, it is love, then,
This doubt,
This knife’s edge across whose metal
We stumble and patter.
This precipice, this brink whom
I teeter over, so precarious
So dangerous.

Oh! It is love then,
Whose heat I feel so keenly
On my brow.
Whose grip is death and life
entwined.
Whose hold I scrabble for,
hand I grasp.

Why, is this love, then?
With words so glittering,
Arms so welcoming,
Teeth so sharp and eyes so bright
As to entrap me all.

It is love, then,
That we whine and writhe for,
Sprawl and scrabble over,
Fight for and fall into.
It is a simple twist, a warming vice,
A rising and a setting sun, the wax and wane of a long year’s moon.

05.11.06

I made a university friend with this poem. Well, potentially at least.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s