...written as though by Mr. Sark...
Night Seven-hundred Twenty-eight
Scheherazade schemed to live;
her salvation a tale fantastical
Told in spurts, to allow
her Time.
Breath. Thoughts. Companionship.
Passion a chance to build and boil,
Longing a space to blossom,
Desire occasion to coalesce.
What story do you now spin
for me, Love? One of unknown travels? Exotic
locales; Poughkeepsie, Kalamazoo,
Mississauga?
Doubted you my devotion? Feared
you my ardor cooled? And so,
vexed with insecurity Love dissociated;
mist into the air, like scent
from an atomizer
Scattered among my every day,
refusing to converge.
Did you disappear from believed impassiveness?
Do you hide to obscure the fact you've
nowhere to run? No destination
safe to find? Or, indeed, is your story too great
for the telling, its narrative a stone about
your fine, slender neck? Their deaths like
kaddish boulders, under which you've buried
Sydney; hidden, walled and covered my Love?
Be no longer Sydney, if it so please you.
Be, rather, my Scheherazade
Adorn my bed each night
Your story tell as it may come to you;
frightening, foreign, fragmented.
Be whole, tangible, concrete.
Any request met, your life
each dawn, a gift
I'd gladly give. Only, Love,
Go not on missing, lest I
should drown from over-inhalation,
air-drunk lungs at every turn,
breathing deep to take you in
where I scent your presence,
though you have gone.
Disclaimer:This work is not affiliated in any way with the ABC spy series Alias, or, for that matter, Mr. Sark, whose poetry--until such time as he wishes to make it public--remains unsung, unfeted, and largely unknown.
by: Neftzer 2003 (c)
Feedback Appreciated!
From my website, Mr. Sark Writes Loves Poetry royaltoby.com / alias / sark.html