Awakening
in the twenty four hour embrace of a few moments sleep,
where half a lifetime eludes dreams;
and feeling you were cheated
by too much gin and lack of sleep
in these unconsummated fumblings.
Reunions of this passion seem anomalous,
do we feed self-interests which destroy its mutuality?
To cling together is a punishment
when coursing blood is chilled by footsteps in the hall.
Guilt's malignancy stalks
this gas-lit shadow dance upon the walls
where perversity commands that guilt arouse
an oestrus in the embers of our trance;
and magic moments muted in taut breath
are crushed in weighted consequence,
discretion flees the field to heighten senses
steeped in self-pity, drowned In self-indulgence.
Is this trauma just a scene
in which the players claim immunity from plight
by plea of actors licence?
The effect is more abrasive than abandonment
to passion's flight.
© I.D. Carswell
