Sweet Poetry

The light of the truth of things nudges at my under parts,
beneath the black hood and the high waistline of a troubled youth in a lawyers costume, it pinches and threatens to shake my insides.

Forgotten; never. Remembered if ever
I raise pen to paper to diagram a crime.
The mappings of a mind undisturbed by the violence committed is much like a hand much removed from the arm, the very long arm of every law ever passed
here in the chair in a room with large windows and scarcely any air,
the anxious breathing and the fear of imprisonment hovers even about those not requisitioned.

We all sit in a type of hell as under my skirt and beneath my blouse it creeps,stalks the drips of sweat on my brow, scrapes under my skin.
I dare not utter it here...dare not let any stimuli cross this tiny barrier...it is as if it is sound, and light accomapnies it.

Slowly it recceeds, my mistress dear
for now I am saved from the tip of my pen and the sounds in my ear
Later I resume the love affair complete,
the art that I cannot live without, the way of my dreams.
In the evening light bare and dim, there I let it shine and all that was hum in the day becomes a near scream.