an un-word, reaped
before the oasis, sees
that palm tree shimmering
at your fingertips, you
want, but it’s not want —
you desire, but it’s too dire
for pleasantries, this is lust
but without the lovelies
it is desironious,
an un-word, reaped
at your bedside, some
nonsense that makes your
stomach cry, you hunger
but it is not to please —
you long so long that you
might cave in on your own
presumptions, because
you are desironious,
simply unceremonious,
not in the bit erroneous.


© 2016 Stellular Scribe