Is it that I am coxed by a trail of lust discharged
By her taunt and odourless scents from pockets
Of trapping pours? Perhaps led astray by the eyes
Crystal visage of hidden motes and symmetry's grain?
To hunt their can be no prey, for I, like a comic book
Nemesis, need that molten spray twisting my arteries
And fusing my nerves to a timeless tortured funhouse
Of mirrored self doubt.
"They will come to you," my mother warms to warn,
Yet I hunt, and flee when I see their all.
And time does not forgive
The price of wisdom