James Anderson Poet

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Mr. Rochester's Paramour

O' this heart of mine
how it breathes yours,
although it whines unrepaired
as needs to it be,
pulsing epiphanic sighs
through perceptions screaming deafness.

I witness love in the four-corned roundness of your eyes
a view that treads yearning pearls
deeper into this souls aching slumber
yet I cannot anoint your lips,
as much as this mouth curls the thought of you
I kiss corners in the empty corridors of my brokenness.

You betroth proclamations as free as the twelve winds
I ride the swirl between sex and religion,
nailing morality to my self-contained cross
a guilt of law given by god,
tightening naked principle between passion and conscience,
where wife and mistress tempt no middle logic.

yet, if I only could... if I only should...?

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