JewelStock '96

Infatuation

     Infatuation is a strange thing.
     A bony creature thin with feeding on itself.
     It is addicted not to its subject, but to its own vain hunger
     And needs but a pretty face to fuel its rampant imagination.
     It's humid couch and sweaty palms.
     It's fleshy carpets ablaze with conquest.
     But when conquering is complete,
     the blood leaves its limbs and it becomes disenchanted.
     Disappointed even to the point of disgust
     with its subject, who sits then, like a hollow trunk,
     emptied of its precious cargo
     and left to fade like defeated naval ships.
     A seed relieved of its transparent husk,
     to dissolve finally on a rough and impatient tongue.

Poetry from JewelStock '96
Copyright Jewel Kilcher 1996
Page Copyright 1998 Foolish Games