by Asia Smyth

Created on: July 06, 2008   Last Updated: July 07, 2008

Til We Meet Again, My Love

One never knows
when He will come
or where He will go.
He sporadically assaults me,
causing inspiration
to bleed from my pen.
My mind is a tool,
as is my hand.
Exploited for linguistic
and creative ability,
contorted and distorted
for countless sleepless nights
when a dry spell creeps up on me.

I ache for thee, oh Poetry!

Where have you gone?
Why have you abandoned me?

Am I so bad a lover,
unworthy of your prowess?
You use and abuse me
for one hot night
when you knock at my bedroom door
in the guise of Lucidity,
and then desert me
while I drown in the delusions
of a frantic self-loathing state.
Oh Poetry, you are my drug.
Save me from the desperate abyss
of meaninglessness!
Let me savor and indulge
in your bittersweet comfort!
Let me drink of your power and glory!
Don't leave me!
The withdrawal beckons
such horrific visions
and intolerable nightmares,
night after night of cold sweats,
hot flashes, and the agony
of a void-filled existence.
You obfuscate
my diamond-like clarity,
imbuing murkiness
into my ethereal knowledge of being.
Oh Poetry, my soma,
my enemy, my love.
So precious and wretched
at once are thee.
When serendipity strikes,
you come back to tempt me
in your cloying way,
quenching my thirst for meaning
and a slight glimmer of brilliance.
Alas, dear Poetry,
you never cease to disappoint.
An Indian giver extraordinaire,
bestowing talent mistaken as free,
in exchange for my solace, my peace,
ripping my once-enlightened heart
from my fatally wounded chest,
forsaking me once again,
drained and disillusioned,
with the masochistic hope
of your brutal return.
Til we meet again, my Love.

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