Of night’s distorted, darkest prose
you are cautiously composed.
Adorned in night’s blackest cloak
your mind remains in repose-
a consistent absence of color
that no light can break, expose
the secrets of your quiet heart
locked tight as the bud of a rose.
In being fair, anxiety I too keep
rooted deep, aching to unleash
loosely bound, barely muffled
in my heart’s erratically rising beat.
My will grew too weak to fight the elements
of my heart restored in contrast of ice and fire,
as the sensation of wanting, of pursuit
brought immanent pain of unrequited desire.