Thrive

For some

Can inhabit and thrive without the dark

I am not one

It is my wont to roam

Feel the tickling urge of excitement

Trained out of obedience, dark crystal inside maze

Blister unused tongue on your soft edges as we blaze

However old I grow, the longing unquenched, as linen will wrinkle in the instant of wearing

a woman holding herself in cupped hand as she turns in twilight

To brave the sultry lights, bangled, hennaed arms above my head

Sate the drums pounding in my chest, find trance in your musk

Lie in perfumed beds with long female limbs

Some would say it’s hedonism

Others simply wouldn’t understand

Why a 9/5 existence I cannot swallow whole

Surely there are prices to be paid

A reckoning when the time comes

I’ve seen it in all children of the night

When their fast urgency catches up with them

Such terrors I do more desire, than you

So harness me, make me obey your rule

For nothing I do stops the scald

Consumes my sanity and sets me running

Toward music and the gloom of the periphery

Where we who are cursed must sup, to sate longing

Our blood is not content with daily ritual

We live close to death, in the fury of passion

Short our lives be, they are magnificent

Relics of a time before without constraint

Wild and thirsting for motion we spun the world

Off its bloodied axis

3 thoughts on “Thrive

  1. Reading this, there came to mind the French expression “La petite mort”, that says so much more than our English words for that moment. It came with the line, “We live close to death, in the fury of passion”. And now, that thought of a death petite or otherwise brings another poet’s voice, “Do not go gentle into that goodnight”*, and going with passion, with fire, being consumed and consuming.

    *I’m remembering a recording of Dylan Thomas reading that, drunk as a lord, but reading clear and passionate, and then so close to his own departing.

  2. Your writing is incredibly astounding and beautiful, Candice. This is my favorite poem of yours I’ve read yet, and the meaning is so raw, visceral, it screams independence and freedom. Sometimes, we do not want the 9 to 5. Sometimes, we want the thrill and excitement and what others consider the darkness.

    If it weren’t for those who were consumed by such intrigue, we wouldn’t have the professionals we have today–forensic scientists, for instance. You state this so eloquently, and each line is emotional to me. I especially adored these lines:

    “However old I grow, the longing unquenched, as linen will wrinkle in the instant of wearing
    a woman holding herself in cupped hand as she turns in twilight…”

    This is an excellent poem about never inhibiting the self and always doing what one wants to do to explore and sate their curiosities and their interests (as long as it’s in a safe way, of course). Brilliant poem here. I love reading your work! 🙂

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