Evermore

by Jaime Frodyma Krouk

I seek to speak of evermore;

to ramble on of lives before.
To feel the fiery flow of
Unprecedented Outpouring.
Unashamed,
Not contained,
Shaking,
Breaking,
Screaming for release
from the confines of conformity,
of moral oral obligation-
the true rapist of my rapture.
 
I crave the flavor of jibber-jabbered FrEeDoM;
to endlessly echo
without apprehension
the epic proportion
of pensive ponderings 
imprisoned in my psyche.
 
I choose to lose all sense of social propriety.
Spewing with satisfaction the lascivious lava of futures forbade.
Lost in the loquacity of timelessness, I bathe
in ecstasy; frolicking in this,
the monologueof my emergence.
Naked with nonsense;
slick with salivary escalation 
as I bask in the beauty of the breakdown.
Just a momentary escape…
 
For these shackled chains of chastising silence
choke my eloquence.
Unexposed, I decompose.
The essence drains as I refrain from ranting.
Retired, this verbalizing vixen shadows her vulnerability; vaulted.
Mum, this muted muse withers,
wordlessly succumbing to the pangs of practicality.
Stalled, falling and fumbling in the abyss of numb.
 
For I am at fault,
forever provoking the reopening of wounds.
My words heal not.
Rather they tease,
with tempting telepathy to harvest the wildest of seed.
My sorceress’ spell lleads with utmost certainty
to the highest heights of potential’s illustrious peaks.
All grounding defeated,
greeted and cheated…
“Welcome to The Zenith of Hell’s Harping.  
Hear what you seek here.”
 
Thus sold by the cajolery of calliope’s charm,
believing themselves immune to harm,
listeners leap.
Trusting; thrusting their very humanity 
into an enchanting vista of verbiage below.
Crash and burn; there can be no return 
from a poet’s purgatory.
 
Tis’ a danger to all on reading road 
for my driver is drunk with repression.
Unable to slow, already know the next words to come.
Keep coming and coming, 
a climax of exclamatory expressions of amorous arousal
thundering through my thesaurus of thoughts.
Been hurt a lot, thus I hurt the lot
of lovers who woulds’t heal my heart…
 
Attempting to forget,
I swallow my regurgitations with regret.
The fever of my feelings dormant,
biting back the beguiling banter
that is the very nature of my being.
Holding my tongue.
My prose, a poison; 
toxic secretions too potent to share.
Just isn’t fair.
For what I feel, I feel is real
and though I mean not to impose,
my appetite still larger grows,
inspired by the plight of passion. 
I dare to ensnare.
Possessed, obsessed, I must confess,
by an infinite intent to induce the world to prAy.