Your lust is an orphan;
for it blossoms no love.
Your flicker of love is a nomad,
it has got no true home.

The beds of your women,
a temporary dwelling.
You wake up in satiated emptiness,
she, in secret yearning.

Your lust is an orphan;
it repels her hungry love.
Your short lived passion and
her visions of perfection,
causing your lust to be an orphan.

Til the day,
you allow a love so ravenous to devour you.
Til the the day your heart gets eaten,
Your lust remain an orphan,
Mr Casanova.


-QMN





To an acquaintant whose heart belongs to nobody while his lust belongs to everybody.
I wonder how will he feel if he knows he is going to die tomorrow and has got no one to call his own, while at the same time, he left a part of himself with so many others.

xoxo.

Labels: creation, Mr Casanova, poem