Ars Amatoria and Passion Tea

You’ve instilled in me the beating
of an otherworldly heart,
a bloom of moorland heather among
the vineyards of my melancholy,
the ordinaryness of urban survival
that tantalizes the nurtured aches
in those for whom freedom is
but an echo of a symbol of a fable,
a faraway dream,
a dizzying height falling from which
may as well be worse than
confronting death itself.
My winged archetype,
verse of Sufi poetry tracing
ardent nights on the curve of my hip,
you are inner fire, the will of a seed
to spring to life and flourish
and make the sun proud.
I wear my soul on the outside
sometimes, to flaunt the colors
you’ve taught my eyes to reap
stories of faith from, to claim truths
that are too hot for many
bare hands to touch.
I have become you from loving you.
I have given birth to the sky.
My finiteness lies convalescing,
wrapped in your redolent,
someday-tinted light.

2 thoughts on “Ars Amatoria and Passion Tea

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