Too....

I don't even know what it hungers for.
A wild mushroom with a newborn's wail,
primal is its scream,
more insistent than desire
but with little specificity.

Something strange and wonderful
within me aches from the fullness
of a pregnant soul
ripened by time and sun....
I am far too sensitive,
too open to stimulation,
too receptive to the haunting pain and elation
of man and matter.

Death is too naked,
warmth too soothing,
touch too titillating,
tenderness too raw,
love too vulnerable,
hedonism too noble, lust too lofty,
gentleness too fragile.

Give me an opiate of numbness
for just a little while, that I might forget
what it is that aches and loves,
laughs and cries, demands and tries
with its millions of reasons
Why.

Reviews

[Ed Hart]

i know, i know, i know