The Waiting Bud

The Waiting Bud

The waiting bud trembles,

and my racing heart, too-

the energy implicit between us

is a kinetic whisper.

If I dampen the screaming of my blood,

each lyric is clear,

the primal tongue translated

to savagery within a current.

 

Latent petals are impatient,

and my feasting eyes, too-

seasons change quick as a shutter falls,

if the budding bloom returns a look.

Can I still my gaze until

time forgets I’m here,

throws open the day,

as she blossoms before my wonder?

 

The sweat of beading dew,

and my morning glance, too-

on the breeze, a harmony,

the union of our agonies.

As I turn to meet my sunrise,

taste the honeyed, floral scent,

my throat runneth dry,

though my cup runneth over.

 

The pounding rain echoes,

and my hunger cries, too-

pooling at her feet,

where I am also rooted.

Will I lift the chalice to my lips,

take my fill by right of need,

or will I bow- devout, submissive,

kneel to taste the running brook?

 

Fire does not beg consumption,

neither, my humming flesh-

now her vining reach flickers,

souls are entangled.

We make no use of form,

but collide as forces,

lightning striking lightning,

landing gently in the flame of a candle.

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