The Grasp
by Steven Craig
Purple
A color of intense passion
Of a desire
Of a flame that burns all the fuel in its reach
and then
consumes it's self.
The flame true of the heart,
the red and blue of blood and life
And long and silent nights.
The ache of hope
The desire for touch
The look of eyes reaching like hands for the grasp
The lips that move only to please
The mouth that consumes its pleasure in place
Words not spoken, but cast as a net
To Cover the one she loves
With all her mind,
In all the spaces
In all the time
There is in her a calling,
That makes no excuse
A need so intense,
It rekindles that flame each hour of her life
A Searching soul
She parts her sea
And runs to what awaits her
Her hands hold the key
The fingers her heart
The grasp is all she has in her world
The world is that which brushed against her one day
The whole world she knows as her life
Is all for not if its not for him
Her breath would freeze on a warm day
Her heart seize in mid pace
Were he not to be there
Were he out of her minds eye
Were he gone.
Lost and lonely is the shape of the pearl she wears
Nothing masks the dread of missing the grasp
Nothing holds her feet to the soil
No brace to support her mind
When he is drifting away
When her arms are vacant
When her bed is untouched
When her lips have long dried in the wind.
12/18/2007
