DENIAL

DENIAL -- 13 April 2006

when shall i see You?

Your face is dew

over a dry patch,

Your smile a batch

of promises untold,

Your mind a manifold

trove of bliss ahead,

'tis wine, ‘tis a meal of bread

to still my hunger,

a spring for longer

quenching of thirst

and yet, not a merest

filament, although i grope,

for threadbare wisps of hope.