That question played,
Always replayed his beginning and end.
Moments defined by raising arms.
His one seducer back.
One moment pressing as another cares.
The tongue of his stranger’s mind,
One soft flicker.
Lips that touch his blood directly,
Shoulder leaned down,
Hand in shirt...
The dark wall of closed eyes looks back.
He was rolling it happens.
Will other lips have way as his?
Slender difference if it were so,
Beautiful young flower.
But oldest is fair,
Letting blue of lavender,
Like moons, straight around his face.
A delicate face.
Eyes a pale mirror.
A far look back at expression to be.
Even he does much more than none.
Poetry "Grotesque No. 2" Copyright © T.A. Miles
Derivation "Grotesque No. 2" by T. A. Miles