The Violet Hour Poem by Alex Liberto

the violet hour

The bed is sheathed in body struggling with penumbra jarring love strings I cannot bare to share so I retract like anemone when touched by body afraid of intimacy not god-given but mine borne from whim of wanton I am not sure which part of me and when my mobile stirs to murmur rescue I jump at the call for freedom from burden to share with whomever whatever thwarting the moment I dread which returns like darkness to light once words run dry leaving dearth of weapons to wield with wilting thrust counterfeit lust struggling for submission with devout consummation hardly to be wished so I think of you and search beyond this perfect pageant of hoarding human fuss to find in the oblivion of this night your surreptitious glance torn from the midst of mediocre mass and when I feel your eyes delve I shudder with ripples from pebble thrown into the stillness of urge to sculpt this monolith of words with chisel of breath embroiled within life's revealing masterpiece interred in slab lifting marble dust just dust that clouds and clouds and clouds