Are You Dead or Alive in Amsterdam?
Our friendship had too sensuous an accent :
I greedily explored your curvacious body.
We wordlessly parodied real love.
Mesmerised by lust, we discarded our clothes.
We lay naked, intending to steal erotic fruit,
Making the worst of my motheršs absense.
The condom that you brought, easily fooled us
into acting out our pubescent fantasy;
We sought intimacy and depth in mere shallow sex.
The surprise of your womanly shapeliness, to these
Virginal eyes, accelerated my erogenous response.
I never plundered your holy, sacred space;
My desire then rendered null & void by doubt.
Our misguided, erotic escapade was abandoned.
After a decade of absolute silence, we met again.
Your smile welcomed me warmly; your micro-mini skirt
And thigh high boots looked very alluring.
Old desires were disarmed though by the “new command”;
So, instead, we talked, traded old-scholars news,
Ate & drank, then got the “ghost bus” hiomewards.
It raced along the bumpy roads to the terminus,
We held back parting tears as our encounted ended.
I fondly waved goodbye and walked home alone.
I ache for you to live within God's deep mercy.
I recall your teenage years, your sincerity,
Your painful response to my sundering our friendship.
Oh, how I long to hear you, see you, again.
Another decade has passed without re-union.
Little did I kow then; we were siblings
In spirit, made kindred by our fragmented families.
I rue the day that I casually scrapped your address.
Painful prayer is now on these hopeful lips.
Oh, Annalie, are you dead ot alive in Amsterdam?
If only I could search those sleazy streets for you;
I'd ask for your forgiveness this time.
I love you now, in a chastened brotherly way.
Did you leave this life by that awful exit door?
Did you yet reach out for the Father's forgiveness?
“Oh, watchmen, watchmen - what of the morning?”
