I think perhaps I delight in you,
simply because there is a bite in you
a something quite not right with you
In the many fluid ways of you.

You draw me in with all kinds of sin,
but this poor delicate body can only
take so much abuse,
the fear is the itch that I scratch,
as it beckons
I answer, I bleed and bruise
my soul and mind continually
playing the fool of a tool
where your ways rule
ever move
of the day when we play
in decadent forays
of searing sensual
delights.

I meander down a shadowed road
upheaved, trees overturned and strewn about in my way, as a soft bird calls in the distance, beckoning me away.
It’s always the destructive, mingled with the mundane with you.
Drawn to mischief as the moth’s ass
is to a searing flame.
Who’s to blame in this story of us then?

Which of us needs to be grabbed and shaken, to fucking change
to learn to love “properly” in the mind
as the hand still explores the pain.

People are never simple.
All crying onions. Layer upon layer.
Until Time is forgotten.

By Philip Wardlow Dec 2020