Wanton Ambling Nymphs

By Bud Koenemund

I fear perfect love is but fantasy;
A fiction dwelling solely in my brain;
Some trick of the mind’s creativity –
That domain where wanton ambling nymphs reign
O’er intellect; suffused by fairy tales
Oft’ ending happily ever after:
Though illusions inevitably fail
When affection’s nativity yields hurt.
These dreams ne’er align with reality,
As I awake confined in loneliness.
Yet, this despair does afford clarity –
A recognition of unworthiness.
   Time’s passage will prove no balm for my soul;
   I am left without cure to make me whole.

Ghost

By Bud Koenemund

For "Her."

Shrouded in the mystery of my mind
A thought creeps: your perfection was a myth –
Unfound in the light of day – more affined
To fairy tales and love stories than with
Reality. I fear you were no more
Than a shadow cast by a flickering
Candle; an ecstasy left unexplored;
Only a mirage – faint and shimmering.
But, my affection has always remained
Pure; a devotion honest and unfeigned.
Cursed with a memory I can't restrain,
My heart lives a hostage, broken and chained.
   I am doomed to brood over what is lost;
   Enduring each day haunted by your ghost.