Born to Burn

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Trying the Sestina form again. if you want to see the complexities of the form here's a good explanation: Sestina Form.  Each time I try it, (see Swan Songs) it becomes clearer that the only way through the maze it forward with a clear idea of exactly what you want to say. Complicating it with rhyme makes it harder, but I like the way rhyme underscores the repeats and strengthens rhythm. By the way, I highly recommend the Scrivener app for iPad and Notebook, great for poets and novelists or storytellers of any kind.

 

I commend my pale skin unto your lips and hands
As ever have I ridden but a faint horse and mild, 
Nor found a master to my unruly soul’s delight. 
Hand fast and taken across the moving water wild, 
Now a moon mare grazing soft upon those shadow lands--
Such blessings rise by fool’s faith unto my little sight
Your warm mouth, the night, the snow, all so disturbed my sight, 
Old stars spun, history split, with my coat caught in your hands
I stood, while inside joy rose flooding the border lands. 
So oceans pound, flames thrust, heat seeks heat, but also mild
Peace, to sleep safely beside a force that molds that wild
On a state of grace for this prometaphase delight.
Who even recognizes such a thing, mere delight, 
As worth some certain costs, those not difficult to sight: 
Risk, infection, need, hope, tears, and then the joker’s wild! 
I know, but cannot be wise, and with my empty hands
Must cover still my eyes, just now no mistake seems mild—
Like thoughts spoke too fast, forgetting these are foreign lands.
Upon your expanse of dark silk skin I find new lands, 
Crave more the taste of sweat, find your fierceness my delight, 
Understand the words “impale” and “bite,” for nothing mild  
Is wanted now, nor on any morrow yet in sight
And shifting sighs and shudders slide sweet upon your hands. 
Give, give me, or take and take, for either wolf is wild. 
A soft sixteen that never was, now that child’s gone wild: 
Quickened, shy, certain, bold, not sure where she lands,  
But craving, ever craving the sweet impression of your hands. 
A tongue for laughter, many kisses cannot feign delight;
I think you’ll come again, though the when is not in sight— 
Faith and patience challenge me to find the waiting mild. 
So I learn to walk on, regal, more serene and mild
While inside the new tigress paces, lithe and bright and wild.  
My breath so hot upon your neck seeks flame and blurs sight:
If hunger frightens men, like the salty monsters in new lands,
Then what good are kisses anyway, lip sung without delight. 
Here find slow courage and soft flesh that rises to your hands. 
Beneath wise hands and wild I am cinderedby delight,
So freely leave behind and shed those old, sad, mild lands. 
Kiss me, for clearly my flesh was made to burn on sight. 

On Alterations

The Way It's Done