I walk slowly, as love’s fruit is maturing
And each step I take, I am closer to the budding.
In tiredness I dream, seeing his sleep-lost face;
My fingers caressing his rested thighs – he stirs –
His unsensing hand unconsciously touching mine.
My heart drum, drum on, the drummer and the dream.
In impatience I wait for thee to quicken on
But cruel time heeds not my troubled imploring
Nor the perspiring of my mind.
O, this yawning chasm through which life is filled
Must unfill itself when time gives its grace
To issue forth the treasure that is buried in me,
Formed and shaped by the Master Sculptor.
Come, archaeologist with your pick, to unbury it;
The place is found. We will just have to wait.
IFSU
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