the lost man chronicles
the daily chronicle
Atop an Appalachian (howling at the moon)
the lithe lift of your words flow over and through and under me and tow at the same spirit which the moon yanks at each time she rises and tugs magnanimously at my soul. you yank at my center just as forcefully, wantonly piquing and pulling and prodding me to scream the pangs which burn me alive within the inferno of this libidinal fire, that ancient ache which throws every man into the peril of an insatiable desire—for you.
oh bright muse, why do you refuse me? why confuse me when it all seems so unbelievably real? must the steel blade of others’ foibles cut through us and keep us apart? must the girt of the earth and its unforgiving gravity keep me anchored to the mire of circumstance?
once more you have awakened me and i can no longer slumber. somnolence is a distant thought far away from the lunatic fringes of your white inspiration. i want to run to the top of the highest Appalachian and howl, cry, confess to you all that you inspire inside of me—the flow, the effervescence, the rejuvenating joie de vivre, the adolescence which has me spinning in a giddy vertigo.
and now, woozy, not knowing where to go, i stammer within the shackles of my worldly imposition, the fetters of my social position and the choices i have made, knowing that these druthers have laid out a certain destiny which i belatedly realized was not exactly the fate i was made to follow.
alas, although i often feel hollow in the wake of this provincial life, when you reappear, in your glorious full splendor, with tender inferences and light supplications of lapping intrigue, i feel full once again.
o hallow moon i love you! i want you! i write and create and live to walk in the shadow of your luminescent rays, in the reflective ways you serve as my nocturnal sun and the one brilliant femme whose sublime power exalts my imagination.
in the beginning .00 daily archives