SUNSET RHAPSODY

How the mind plays tricks
and teases! Oh what a parody of foolish desires
set in daydream's whimsical realm
are here materialised in the red-gold hues
of a mid-December sunset.

And how such spectacle evokes and holds
intense amorous longing: for to sheathe in fire
the Adonis form intensifies mania -
however illogical. Ever since the first Eve
was formed from Adam's rib

has not woman been tormented
by irrepressible urges? The inner voice
cries, Touch him, go on - touch him!
And tingling fingertips
eagerly reach for the shimmering mirage.

But distance armour protects
the God-form from harlot's assault -
and we all know sunset eventually gives way
to dusk, that gathering darkness that shields
the Idol from wanton gaze.

And in the morning
he is no longer there, just an empty sky
and light unformed. The ice blue,
now victorious, seems to mock:
See - there is nothing here but space!

But, once aroused, the seventh sense
will not relent: scrutinizes still
in desperation clouds and flocks of birds
for any semblance of humanoid form
that imagination can illogically deify.



For certain the Gods have struck a pact
to place great power within the grasp
of man and etched his glorified image
deep into the female psyche -
is this what the intellects term "instinct"?

He, stunning once more in a new sunset,
is shimmering less though in the fiery glow: over-worshiped,
his perennial perfection is overstretching
and fading into another dusk. His body askew,
he is disintegrating and dispersing

into illusion's fractured sunbeams
that once gave him lips to kiss in dreams:
an exaggerated promise that seems suddenly absurd.
Now, as storm clouds gather, the ideal anatomy transforms
into irony's most hideous fiend.