We side step desire
like the adroit dancers
we once were
light-footed, thin-ankled
defying gravity
in our keening
and still
that furnace
despite our neglect
consuming itself
continues to blaze
waking us at night
when the house is full of memories
and cold corners are no solace anymore
we roam halls bareheaded
fleet of foot
dancing in our sleep
to the urging wick of desire
for there is no remorse for people like us
we live only because we are struck
by an unsteady hand
igniting emotions like
all unsaid things
thrown on restless bonfire
will cast illumination and spectacle
among bare branches of old trees
if we could put words to
why we’d flung our very lives away
just for one night together
we’d be pulled back from the brink
the edge of everything
where all who are struck, reach
naked in their disregard for sanity
only hoping
in this feeling
lies the very thimble
of life itself
TheFeatheredSleep 
❤
The thimble of life itself … suggests to me that protection lies in the danger … fascinating way to end this intriguing poem!
Tolstoy got it right, caught the dead feeling of the thing, but also the restlessness of it, the searching;
“Boredom: the desire for desires.”
For desire truly is the engine, even when we busy our days with other, lesser, matters, in Morpheus’ realm Desire also ranges free.
Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
TheFeatheredSleep – Dreams of Desire
You are absolutely right in that analysis my friend – you always read poetry the way it intends you to! Love it. Appreciate you.
So deep, relatable and gorgeously poignant
Thank you so much!
My pleasure 🍁