How can this mortal coil be so made to bear the pressure of unfrequented love. Aught not this love be beyond the highest heavens for this miserable retch. Yet a chance to almost taste that sweet, sweet scent wafting down upon a gentle summer breeze. To turn and kiss this apparition which disappears into dappled sunlight brings only further tortures upon this soul.

Oh the torment to have the pleasures of the flesh so near. Could he not taste the peach which he seeks to taste even for the merest moment? The treasure which lies there, tempting, causes the cruellest injury to mortal soul yet perchance to try it remains as elusive as the elixir of life itself.

Blood falls from open wound, that this torment has visited injury upon this lovelorn buffoon. Frantically he seeks help to seal each tear, as his very essence does seep betwixt his fingers. He wills it can it be so, holding fast to that which remains. Who knows the longevity for this mans heart and the damage that hast caused by this middle aged foolishness.

The journey on loves rippling road has come to an arduous junction. Turn toward that which promises much love, sensuality beyond his dreams or down a path to who knows where. The questioning words fall from his lips, but which part of this enemy of his will pick the correct juice laden fruit upon this apple tree. This tree set in the Garden of Eden, which causes this junction. Choose the right fruit unquestionable love will be fore ever his to choose, choose wrongly and his love lies, bleeding.

In hallucinatory imaginings he is atop a rope, strapped between the tallest of trees, knowing the wrong move will bring certain death, but hold could that yet be his only true release. To remove this torturing heart so others may live. Would it not destroy its blackened core so no more pain will it cause upon those who seek it as partner to their own. Illusions drift onward and he treads upon a delicate spiders web. This is a flimsy web formed of deceiving half truths.  It was woven out of site from those who hold him dearly. They are the very same who would die from shame and curse the very ground upon which he now dares tread.

Yet years of love and respect fort for, every inch earned to reach thus upon this very highway yet he risks batting away as if it were a house fly. What is this madness that he now finds himself? Such torment should not be visited upon any mortal coil. This folly threatens those he holds so dear. Each step causes the weakening of the very web upon which has formed a tight knit support. He feels each silken thread sway to and fro. The merest gust could send the unsuspecting middle aged hoodwink to a certain unmarked grave.

What is this Lord, this agony of choice that befalls this frame? Where is it said that inner strengths aught to be brought to there very breaking point? Does not life have trial enough? Are there not enough tasks within destinies realm?  How he prays that the spirits of common sense and reason visit upon these opaque dreams bringing clarity, where discord now reigns. Surely from that vessel, that harbours such love, when posing such questions, has he not already found his answer follows as question mark forms?

©Phil Golding Jan 2008