There is no much time left in this place,
Of spoiled glances in our tensed embrace.
Ours of awkward and unsteady synchronicity.
There is barely enough stillness left in such hefty silence.
If I lose you in a crowd full of uproar,
Then find me by the whimpering solitude.
Am festering, and you are a remedy,
A hive full of potions and a fleet of passion.
‘When will we be brave!’
When will you be man enough? Says your flogging stare.
A stare made of decadence, made of all that I long for.
And yes I am made of what you dream of,
Of sweet dreams or grotesque nightmares hovering just before the first light.
And I didn’t intend to thread on your glass toes;
But I can feel your feet stamping on my field.
and all the pangs of nervousness mean I am glad you are here.
A poem by Tonny Wandella