April 26

[thedreya]

It's actually the 27th. I have gone to bed and woken up again. We're going to fudge it anyway. There will be another poem later, probably.

I am at war with myself.
My mind is an oppressor overshadowing my body.
It marches my pleasure down long galleries where harsh
Lights glare on missed precautions and unwanted
Possibilities reflect back exaggerated in warped mirrors.
It is the most psychological of warfare.
It is a concentration camp for desire.
It dwells everywhere, on everything, except here
On the steady advance of your touch.
My heart is full of guerillas. They thrive
In lush tangles and steaming atmospheres. They want
Only a rushing flood to wipe the moment clean.
Every sigh is a battle. You send more aid
But it is not enough. There is torture and heavy casualties
On both sides. A splinter group cries
Out for peace. The mind stops to listen.
The heart sees its chance and strikes:
A bomb. This is no nuclear holocaust; still,
Victory feels empty.
Beside me you find the satisfied sleep
Of a land that knows justice.
Your steady breath is an accusation.
Inside me there are crimes to be answered for
Some other night.