they sit upon the edge of me
on verge to pour from ducts clogged tight;
with memories of ecstasy
embracing pillows dark at night.
designing cards for holidays
with candles lit and presents wrapped;
an incompleteness talks to me
inside the minutes all but trapped.
there's men professing love and bliss
with rhapsodies enrapt with praise;
hard torn by pleasures, touch and kiss,
as yearning spurns in passioned phrase.
too late to capture youth within
a box with ribbons, tied with gold;
the endings echo off begin
in stories finished or not told.
they sit inside behind the lids,
lashed out by tides in lust perused;
sometimes the laughter's drowned with bids
bet on some finite unions fused.
no fault is found in errors made,
no prisons loose the tarnished vows;
and time is but a fast parade
down streets of yesterday's arouse.
no blaming meant, no passion quelled,
while introspect feigns plague to kill
the joy intrinsic, born then swelled,
backfiring on a lover's will.
why do they well on verge of burst?
perhaps this jaded soul is cursed.