I yearn for your touch—
but every brush of you shocks me,
static jolting straight to my heart.
I weep, but no one hears me.

The heart—eager, vulnerable,
a lily waiting to bloom.
Love blossoms so quickly,
yet expires without notice.

I free my mind of despondency,
only to be possessed.
I am deceived—agony rips through me.
I wail—please, come to me.

Your heart—calloused, uncharitable.
A lily retracts into the mountain at winter;
fresh love disintegrates so quickly,
fostering death in the soul.

Cleanse me. Do not leave me here,
stranded with my broken pieces.
I reach for you—one last desperate grasp—
but you turn away.
You’ve done your part.

–The Nonconformist