The ghost of an idea

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Prostrate on the ice sea of Ganymede,
something stirring deep beneath.

Aching, my clawing fingers bleed,

cut upon a sliver of that buried wreath.

That florid-berried grief of a mind dead-

sure that something must be said.

That something is pulsating at the core,

under an opalescent denial, indeed deplored.

There is an hypnotic, swaying cobra head,

quick of fang and venom - antidote?

Drill below the feelings of dread.

Drill through lifetimes of rote.

Drag the problem into a poem.

Address the topic, always there.

Pour your heart, at long last free

to roam, where

the sea of Ganymede is split asunder,

and, with flowers in our hair,

we blend and spin the essence,

of our embrace, with thoughts our fare.

Torpid of words, upon a sunlit bed,

in trance and upward glance,

submit to the cosmic happenstance,

of an: I see! Finally of its ambiguity bled.