"Love is no hot-house flower,
but a wild plant, born of a wet night,
born of an hour of sunshine; sprung
from wild seed, blown along the road
by a wild wind."óJohn Galsworthy
i let the wild wind
into my life without a parachute,
eyes open, but blind
to how fleet beauty may become fierce brute.
the high of the storm
grooms treachery on lofty mountain stops,
then comes the alarm,
when glory falls to earth without its props.
surrender the will,
and let your bubble bloom like dynamite;
then brace for the kill,
as fragments of stale pleasures foul the night.
lets loose the hand that feeds ignominy--
a rush of red paint
obliterates your thirst for harmony.
tease not the wild wind,
whose song conceals an arrow in its stew;
blind pledges rescind,
before that all-consuming rendezvous.
your only escape:
withdraw your finger from her tigress mouth;
lust not for the rape
that strangles wisdom when wild winds blow south.
© Copyright 2023 August 14
by Clyve A. Bowen♫