Eyes which wept with sobbless tears
are dry today – not cured, just gone
away – not cured, but not inflamed
with vision’s painful emptiness.
You tamed the flow in kiss and dare
of joyful night, of warm caress-arrested
fears, toyed with passion-lessened tears
that playfulness soon dried.
It rose again in skin on skin, in touch which
ended loneliness, in touch of gracious
elegance, embracing mind in tactile sense,
defending games you made for life.
© 3 January 2008, I. D. Carswell
Yum, you have more than mastered subtly. The feel of this poem nestles in my chest somewhere. It's a good thing, it's a good thing.