Fevered Mind

A poem by Sydney Stone. I do not own the image.

***

I asked her: what could she want from me?

A hollow man who never learned to dream,

She said she wanted passion, with a capital “P”.

But how could I gift her thusly,

Having lived my life never trusting,

Sweet nothings whispered in times of lusting?

But I endeavored to give it a go,

For I wished not to see the glow,

Of her taillights receding down the road.

I tried it all, did all I could,

From Hallmark cards, to morning wood,

But nothing ever sounded as it should.

Far from the ecstatic screams,

All my efforts-turned pantomime dreams,

Like loveless marriages bartered by kings and bitter queens.

When she left, I swore I wouldn’t,

Try again, I knew I couldn’t,

Go down the path that was never mine to take.

But fate for me had other plans,

And whilst traveling off in far-flung lands,

A beauty there before me came to stand.

An offered hand, a kindly word,

Struck within me quite a chord,

And I took her up on offered room and board.

Perhaps the universe connived attraction,

For for the first time I found my traction,

Our bodies meeting in utmost passion,

With, of course, a resounding capital “P.”