Under the soft lamp light,
piles of letters glow a phosphorescent yellow,
sitting on my bed like marbles
waiting to be plucked from their council.
I grasp one in my hand,
my eyes skimming the words
written on its surface,
little scribbles of pen etched into it
like ancient carvings in stone.
These words of sweetness,
words of lust and fortuitous passion,
tickle my brain waves,
like a feather brushed upon delicate skin,
triggering memories from long ago.
I see in my mind, two young lovers
sprawled on a bed in a dark room,
a breathing mass of sweat, heaving
and heavy grinding of coupled groins,
all moving together underneath
the sweltering bed sheets,
Even wondrous praises
still echo on in my mind.
Yet, such spoken words are now irrelevant,
like the forgotten toy at the bottom of a child’s play box,
a simple afterthought now fading
at the back of a feeble mind.
For time has washed such words over,
cleansed them to inscrutableness.
I see them as nothing more than lies,
just a fungus rotting away on a tree.
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