Having journeyed here from lust,
I arrived with my baggage
of crushes. (The little critters
stacked up to the helm of heaven.)
Broken-legged, limping, Desire's
brutish animals jumping from me
in droves, I walked
into Cupid county with my burden,
and found I had none for you.
The rusty vault of my heart
in that ventral home had given way
for the passage of time and reason.
The iron rock of my blood, molten,
had pushed upwards to mind
and memory—intellect's blade
reforged in a new fire, while below,
in the valley, the organ of sex
starved; could not play its wild
melody. I like this version of the myth
where Sisyphus's rock cared
for ascension, and raced him
to the top, where Sisyphus,
sat atop the boulder at the summit,
could thank the gods for grace;
where, trauma bonded, they live
as they're meant to—into eternity,
a man inseparable from his rock.
In the light of this, I leave behind
my years of foolishness, and
look forward in love's objective lens.
Let me find meaning, dear life,
before that mockery of the flesh.
Let love's lighted thread pass
through me like a needle,
and whatever I make in wild
merriment be stitched with its color.

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NOTE: The italicized phrase is borrowed from a poem by Joseph Fasano. The closing lines of this poem are influenced by W.S Merwin's “Separation.”