Where is my prose snarled a hungry witch,
of crimson cheek and skin of lavender,
ego unfulfilled and hips that bare,
oblivious to the lurking scavenger.
The remnants of rib and soil,
pheromone for severed souls,
a waft, a zephyr, myrtle and sage,
and lustful pangs that she can’t control.
With whisk and ease came the wolf,
hearing her plea for excavation,
with a lifetime of ravage and hurt did he answer,
aloof with misery and devastation.
We perform best where our habits reconcile,
where we return to our defaults,
I ravage because I’ve been ravaged.
I do to others what’s been done to me,
it’s how I love, how I hate.
I eat away until I reach the pit,
by then, I’ve become my prey,
or they’ve become me.
It’s hard to tell the difference.
This attachment is beyond the pull of gravity,
this attraction more like blissful insanity.
A man waltzing with prose between his teeth,
ever an incisor for a willing player,
blood covered hands, nails and underneath,
content only as a soul slayer.
This grief, this wail, this mourning and shrill,
this distance and indifference, and reality pill,
this noise, and orchestra, and blunt tip quill,
this rapture, sin and Frankenstein will.
It’s grotesque and tender and poetry at once,
a culmination, an opus and the crescendo waiting for a home,
a bare skin canvas waiting for the cut,
in the end a wandering sail boat,
taken by winds, a storm and white wash foam.
And there resides that scavenging wolf,
torn between hunger and the thrill,
ever the demons, a wrestle till death,
hell with every pant, a battle of will.
This carnality for the pulse,
the race for fulfilment and satisfaction,
the lure of the woman, the dance with the devil,
the lustful glance of distraction.
-Wesam El dahabi
There is no prison worse than the one of being trapped to base desires.
The wolf is the carnal ego leading us down the path of destruction.