Dementia

I descend into a river of reflections
of my dementia.

Into the collared flesh of your arms
around my exhaustion.

How I long to rest, even as the
creature within me craves, still I yearn

for oblivion, for what do I know of
what I want when it brings

euphoria through a barren land.
It inundates the walls that hold me

imprisoned without bars—
the residue sheen of lust unsatiated,

waiting and listening for the lilt of a
melodic cry, a prolonged moan,

a note that resonates, piercing my own
heart while my eyes ascend  

to where skies glower in the deepening
red of a torturous night

which doesn't threaten, but promises—
Lover, why this banquet?