Countless memories
Ivory bones,
Rearranged by time,
Unseen by eyes,
Untouched by hands,
But felt with each action,
Here I have no access
Behind the curtain,
But what glimpses
There are, stolen
Like promethean fire,
Your smile,
Emerges to make my heart,
Thump a little faster,
The urge to dominate,
Rising like the tides,
Even the comfortable silences,
Carry their tensions,
But amidst the flux
Something immutable
Remains and there,
It seeks to remain,
Steadfast amongst
The chaos,
Strength taken from
Victory,
Cunning learned from temporary
Defeat,
You have not made me this way,
For I have always been,
Such as this,
And if my grasp
Leaves marks,
Take them as a weaker man,
Gives needling platitudes,
My love is a gift
Offered without expectation,
I act over speaking,
Each finding its own tempo,
To play,
To embellish
The symphony of you,
The machines grind,
Producing a stronger,
More loving man,
To guide you
To such sublime
Depths of feeling.
MB Blissett 