The Tired Dweller and Mara

A tired dweller of cold rivers
sits languorously between velvet pillows
and considers these mysterious aches and shivers
dominating the air, the grass and the willows

and this is all that ever happens
for the dweller, alone now in bed, is I
drowning in the likes of a thousand passions
dreaming through each a-delicate eye

it takes 4.5 billion years to make this world
but twenty-four hours to spin me around
leaving everything I knew carelessly hurled
out of the window and smashed on the ground

and it was all for words spoken through lips
words that linger in the cold air of night
it was all for the movement of willing hips
hips that allude to such glorious delight

the lover, oh the lover wallows in wilting flowers
his mind is a mess of mud and hate
she has known him but for a few amorous hours
but to merely forget it is now too late

what insanity into which I have stumbled!
‘she is only human, whether so sweet or so sour!’
over and over again to myself I have mumbled
as my body does nothing but flinch and cower

at the thought of the woman, so deep and so sad
that round in endless circles dances my head
and I am sure I must be going mad
for all I can think to say is: Mara

(even though it does not rhyme)