A Glimpse of the Perfect Sky
by Diar
His lips are the shallow
trenches behind which
he conceals his suppressed
emotions
and most secret, “unspeakable”
desires
in the camouflage of standard
military fatigues, and in
the Arizona-desert brown
that paints contours
in the irises
of his eyes, (eyes
that ceaselessly assault
and batter my heart), I see
a glimpse
of the perfect sky.
His long, slender
fingers wrap
around the fragile
glass of my
oft-shattered heart whenever
he gazes at me with
that detached
yet provocative stare. His is the deepest,
sexiest of voices, and each
time he speaks,
he performs
the intangible harmonies
of the song
that ferments and
hibernates in his heart
along the
overplayed ivory
eighty-eights
of my spine.
Without touching me,
without ever kissing or holding me,
without tears or a profession of love,
he has abducted my soul
and eclipsed the ceaseless,
philosophically meandering
thoughts that
balance precariously over
the cold, dark chasms
of my romance-haunted mind.
His body is stretched and taut,
his skin soft and electric
with the strikes
and flashes
of the lightning rod of Youth
frozen in the graying
embers of the
once-golden locks of Time; every inch
drenched
in the natural polished bronze
of Donatello’s decadent David
burnished
in the overheated kiln
of the sun.
His arms embracing my
unloved body
and cradling the sanctuary
of my heart with his hands,
it is this of which
I dream
and I so fervently desire.
I yearn for his lips
to trace
a new, uncharted course
across the un-sailed seas
of my mouth
and of resting my head
on the smooth
expanse of his bare chest.
He has etched his name
on the glasshouse of my heart
with the diamonds in his eyes
and his hypnotizing
smile has
impressed an indelible
picture on
the photographic
memory
of the camera of my mind.
He has stained
the oceans of my infinite soul
with the deepest
dye of blue
radiating from
every fiber
of the cosmos
of his ever-dilating
and contracting being;
a long time ago
I wrote the first page
of my autobiography,
today, he has written the last.
He, above all the others, is the man of my dreams,
and there is nothing more
I can give him
but the sacrifice of my love, my life.
by Diar
His lips are the shallow
trenches behind which
he conceals his suppressed
emotions
and most secret, “unspeakable”
desires
in the camouflage of standard
military fatigues, and in
the Arizona-desert brown
that paints contours
in the irises
of his eyes, (eyes
that ceaselessly assault
and batter my heart), I see
a glimpse
of the perfect sky.
His long, slender
fingers wrap
around the fragile
glass of my
oft-shattered heart whenever
he gazes at me with
that detached
yet provocative stare. His is the deepest,
sexiest of voices, and each
time he speaks,
he performs
the intangible harmonies
of the song
that ferments and
hibernates in his heart
along the
overplayed ivory
eighty-eights
of my spine.
Without touching me,
without ever kissing or holding me,
without tears or a profession of love,
he has abducted my soul
and eclipsed the ceaseless,
philosophically meandering
thoughts that
balance precariously over
the cold, dark chasms
of my romance-haunted mind.
His body is stretched and taut,
his skin soft and electric
with the strikes
and flashes
of the lightning rod of Youth
frozen in the graying
embers of the
once-golden locks of Time; every inch
drenched
in the natural polished bronze
of Donatello’s decadent David
burnished
in the overheated kiln
of the sun.
His arms embracing my
unloved body
and cradling the sanctuary
of my heart with his hands,
it is this of which
I dream
and I so fervently desire.
I yearn for his lips
to trace
a new, uncharted course
across the un-sailed seas
of my mouth
and of resting my head
on the smooth
expanse of his bare chest.
He has etched his name
on the glasshouse of my heart
with the diamonds in his eyes
and his hypnotizing
smile has
impressed an indelible
picture on
the photographic
memory
of the camera of my mind.
He has stained
the oceans of my infinite soul
with the deepest
dye of blue
radiating from
every fiber
of the cosmos
of his ever-dilating
and contracting being;
a long time ago
I wrote the first page
of my autobiography,
today, he has written the last.
He, above all the others, is the man of my dreams,
and there is nothing more
I can give him
but the sacrifice of my love, my life.
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About Diar:
Diar is a freelance copy editor and proofreader pursuing full-time work in the
publishing industry in an editorial capacity. His educational background is in
Literature, Art History, Philosophy, and Religion. He is a poet and critical prose
essayist, with several publishing credits in both genres in print and on the web.
His literary field specialization is the long 19th century from the French
Revolution through the early Modern novel, with particular focus on the
evolutionary changes of the Gothic, Romanticism, Decadence and
Aestheticism, and Orientalism. His religious and philosophical interests focus
on the various sects of mysticism, as well as Christianity, Hinduism, and
Buddhism. Overall, he continues to hold a strong interest in and love for the
different aspects of the arts and humanities.
Diar is a freelance copy editor and proofreader pursuing full-time work in the
publishing industry in an editorial capacity. His educational background is in
Literature, Art History, Philosophy, and Religion. He is a poet and critical prose
essayist, with several publishing credits in both genres in print and on the web.
His literary field specialization is the long 19th century from the French
Revolution through the early Modern novel, with particular focus on the
evolutionary changes of the Gothic, Romanticism, Decadence and
Aestheticism, and Orientalism. His religious and philosophical interests focus
on the various sects of mysticism, as well as Christianity, Hinduism, and
Buddhism. Overall, he continues to hold a strong interest in and love for the
different aspects of the arts and humanities.
