Carol MacAllister

Return

I stand near your place,
motionless among approaching shadows,
waiting for the silent moon to wake you.

My restless needs long for your return from
this tomb.

The night's winds blow chill.

When will you come,
My empty arms ache.

I slip from the shadows and lay next to
your moon streaked grave,
Press into the damp grass and dried leaves.

In the Spring,
I watched as they lowered you into
the earth that swallowed you
in its gritty mouth and now holds you in
its belly.

Only a shallow depth parts us.

If you do not come to me before
the blustery winter freezes this ground,
I will free you,
Dig you out and take you to
share our bed once more.
 
 

For You

I slither among
growing shadows,
watching,
you.

I've followed,
learned the rhythms,
seen the patterns,
know where you hide
from searing daylight.

Ancient tales celebrate the
ecstasy of your strike,
the consummation of
your passion, unequaled.

Legends exhort the endless pleasure of
desires that flow.

My essence bound in this mortal form
is no longer satisfied.
Human carnality has turned mundane.

I taste
the thrill of your hunt,
your power to transform.

I want
the fire of your body pressed into mine.

Carnal appetites
compelled me to
unveil your presence
in moon's shadows.

I have watched,
fantasized.

My own touch brings no climax
as I move with only imagery
of our embrace.

My frenzied desires scream,
"Stroke me!"
quench this insatiable appetite.

Draw life's blood from this futile, mortal shell,
Bathe me in raptures whispered by ancients,
Meld me into endless rhythms of time.

Tonight, when you return from the chase,
I will be waiting
in your bed.