Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Perhaps One Day

He doesn’t know how much he’s loved,
albeit ectoplasmically.
His amatory gain and game was lust,
which gratified orgasmically

but ceased now much to interest him.
He often dreams he’s in a realm
of roseate amorphousness
which never doesn’t overwhelm

the heart he doesn’t think he has.
Still, something tugs. He is embraced,
meanwhile, though he can’t see or feel it,
by a big blue phantom who had traced

an errant tendril of this young man’s spirit
which had somehow floated out and up
beyond the atmosphere to lure
the phantom down – to the abrupt

decision that the point of its existence
was to love this loner like a son.
We wish we could report a happy ending.
Perhaps one day there will be one.


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