One night stands and eight week flings

I get better, day by day,
But never free myself to love,
Needing to be close,
But never forever,
Wanting to be held,
But in my own time,
As the hunter, I find,
The chase is better than the kill,
Once won, the interest lost,
And on I move ‘til next time,
I meander this earth alone,
By my own choice, I fear,
Advised to love again by those close,
But my demons snuff out any glow,
Before even the first flickers flash,
Yet in this life of emptiness,
Never living or loving,
I find the comfort of a painless existence,
A rare and precious gift bestowed by this world of hurt, A chill wind blows through the empty corners of this house, A clock ticks and echoes to its self in an empty room, Ghosts of the past boarded up and locked away,
In a home left many moves ago,
Just my mischievous sprites to carry now, Memories kept of warmer sunnier days,
Bad ones boxed, sealed and left behind,
Never looking to fill those black fissures again,
Not in this lifetime,
Living in the emotional void of neither sadness or joy,
A small price to pay,
Never to feel the hurting again,
And I will live, never grumbling,
Breaking hearts and erasing numbers,
A life of one night stands and eight week flings,
To add change to my scenery,
The faces adorn the walls of my mind, As I glance over them through sleep, One extra face, in featureless clarity, Haunts the hallowed halls of my mind, But not the one that got away,
Nor one to drink to remember in any lucidity,
She taunts me to find her, resonating in ghostliness,
One last match to enflame me in her soft small hands, Whispered promises of forever on her sweet red lips, Playing emotional hide and seek,
To shatter my status quo,
The click of untrimmed claws on stone, the low desperate howl, My tormenting demon, now the tormented,
As he hunts to distraction of me,
The fear of loosing his grip, should I find her first,
But images formed in smoke and dust,
As intangible as my dreamed nirvana,
As impossible to catch as wisps of September mist, It disappears in the merest of drafts of a half turn, Flashes of movement caught in visions periphery,
Snaps my gaze from side to side,
And is gone again, like nature in darkened lanes,
But once more I wake alone,
And return to this world,
Of one night stands and eight week flings.

African Blackwood and acrylic bowl. More at Bespoke Woods Facebook page.
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