The Lamp

The brightness of the lamp I’ll later light

Awaits the dark in which it will be born.

To stay, for several hours, with me more –

A journey it shan’t take ’til I requite.

By bathing fibrous cords in oil so dear,

And sparking flames to be its next attire.

Thus, slowly burning dark within its fire

As wisps of smoke expand as they appear.

A gentle breeze doth tendrils elevate

And bears the scent of Bergamot within.

The eve arrives and shadows now begin,

With subtle waves of vertigo innate.

My eyes begin their focus to reject

The overwhelm of other scents embrace.

Against my cheeks, my hands caress my face

As I must strive to keep my intellect.

The twin moons amplify my feeble mind.

Or three, or one, confess I not to know.

But surely, by the lamp’s hypnotic glow,

Elation in these bliss-soaked moments find.

Be I another day away from now,

And not this moment in which I exist,

My present and my future would desist –

Another born from seeds I disavow.