5 views
Aching, Yearning, Longing
#YearningEchoes
My heart is aching, longing, yearning;
As my attention is being drawn,
To something I can't quite remember
Or put my finger on.
I sense it was exquisite.
I can recall its satisfaction.
I know it calmed my mind
And it required of me no action.
I can almost see it, almost touch it,
And feel its unique texture.
It was soft, and cool, firm and warm,
Well, I guess it was a mixture.
I haven't slept for days,
Haunted by the image I can't catch.
But, then, not so much an image,
For it's more sensory than that.
I have intermittent flashes
Of what captures all my senses.
But it is so obsecured by static,
That I cannot understand the message.
I only know my heart, my mind, and soul,
Are prisoners of a yearning deep and wide.
And I do not understand for what I yearn
And the Lord knows that I've tried.
It's an itch that I can't scratch,
A fire I cannot smother.
It's a sore splinter I can't leave alone,
And a mosquito in constant hover.
And so my heart goes on yearning;
As my attention is still drawn,
To something I can't quite remember,
Or put my finger on.
© Linda Troxell
My heart is aching, longing, yearning;
As my attention is being drawn,
To something I can't quite remember
Or put my finger on.
I sense it was exquisite.
I can recall its satisfaction.
I know it calmed my mind
And it required of me no action.
I can almost see it, almost touch it,
And feel its unique texture.
It was soft, and cool, firm and warm,
Well, I guess it was a mixture.
I haven't slept for days,
Haunted by the image I can't catch.
But, then, not so much an image,
For it's more sensory than that.
I have intermittent flashes
Of what captures all my senses.
But it is so obsecured by static,
That I cannot understand the message.
I only know my heart, my mind, and soul,
Are prisoners of a yearning deep and wide.
And I do not understand for what I yearn
And the Lord knows that I've tried.
It's an itch that I can't scratch,
A fire I cannot smother.
It's a sore splinter I can't leave alone,
And a mosquito in constant hover.
And so my heart goes on yearning;
As my attention is still drawn,
To something I can't quite remember,
Or put my finger on.
© Linda Troxell
Related Stories
