Flirting At the Edge of Karma

we wander rooms . . .  
dead rooms . . .
appearing in one . . .
disappearing from another . . .
high tin ceilings,
the smell of musty fabric
and a late afternoon sun . . .
a hodgepodge of remnants and echoes . . .
other voices
that reverberate and clash . . .
a schizophrenic’s panacea
 
we wander rooms . . .
quiet rooms . . .
obsessing about choices and miscues . . .
oblivious to the pillars of dust before us
or the eddies of dust in our wake . . .
 
twilight with the hidden one . . .
pillars of dust fracturing . . .
and then hands
nervously seeking out breasts . . .
flirting at the edge of karma . . .
a stew of love and desperateness
comingling with vague respect . . .
 
to sleep . . .
perchance to dream
upon a golden lattice . . .
whispering oblique obscenities
while writhing as only schizoid lovers writhe . . .
appearing . . .
disappearing . . .
and reappearing again . . .