The You

 Cries for you, these ever soft,
They flow not through oratio
But amble in extremities that loft
Reactions to my inner wants.
Not need - no, need is strong;
Want is small and quiet blows.
I hear and speak, but do not aim
To hear myself o'er sounds of same
Of your still life, your feiry day,
And overwhelming need to lay with
Homogeniously sexual faces of you.
That quickened, urgent spur imbue
To you, after who? After passing through
The longest list of days dead generations.
How many meet to leave and meet anew?
How can one still hear another life amid the din?
I cannot hear myself, is this because my voice is thin?
I could still shout to make the world but louder, blithely bludgeon quiet,
Not a smidge of secret silence anywhere if yet the you had time to pay a painful pittance -
My motions call
To all who look to see,
A weary wreath in all.
And therein lies the glee:
If only you who love can find me
And I am never found,
What am I to wonder but that
I am heaven bound?