Disasters, Delights and Other Detours - 82. Visitation and Chained

Visitation

Bedevil me, imagination's sprite,

paint visions of my love behind my eyes

and sound within my ear his joyous cries,

or conjure up his scent upon the night.

I beg you, spring of sweetest dreams so bright,

from aether clothe his spirit in surmise,

that he in arms of Morpheus descries

such yearning that no distance can disguise.

Yet softly sounds the night upon my ear,

I wonder, lest the silence me unmake,

for suddenly I see your form appear,

and unbelieving, though I am awake,

beneath the covers feel your body near,

assuaging thirst that only you can slake.

Chained

I guess by now I ought to be inured

to touch that feels perfunctory and chill,

brief passes of the lips which never thrill

and knowledge my attentions are endured.

Unfortunate it is you are immured,

imprisoned with a cellmate you could kill,

who frustrates to the point of being shrill,

a presence which has never reassured.

But just suppose a breath divine might call,

and passing by our lintel marked with hate

would open doors, loose shackles from the wall,

and offer us a different sort of fate:

would letting go our chalice full of gall

allow us past our iron prison gate?