Adoration -- by Elliot Bougis

Adoration
falls
like some perfect blue pearl of ink
suspended for a moment
in trepidation
at the nozzle tip of ego.
Adoration, the smooth blue pearl
amputates itself smoothly from
the swarthy sea of psyche.
The blue pearl stretches and lurches,
silently ripping away into a moment of isolated suspension.
It falls beautifully.
Wobbling and trembling in midair,
homing in on the alluringly vast floor below.
Adoration tears through the dark midair,
burrowing ahead of a microscopically whistling vacuum.
Carving through the little stratosphere.
On a perfectly averred straight uniform downward path
the dauntless unknowing pearl dives.
So fragile and insignificant is this drop of adoration.
Any falcon-clawed hand could quickly catch and crush
the dauntless quixotic pearl.
Time ages and arthritizes and slows
as the world diffracts and bulges
through the globular eye of this insular adoration.
The floor rushes up
and the pearl rushes down.
The pearl is perfect.
It is round and whole and purposeful and perfect.
And it longs for the floor.
The blue orb of adoration falls
and suddenly
and sadly
mournfully
slides down the cold steel face
of wavering doubt.
An obscene murky streak oozes down this
hard cube of doubt.
Adoration,
the now-shattered once-sheltered blue pearl
was simply too fragile.
A puny breath of temptation,
a trivial rustle of new forbidden flesh
averted the dauntless mindless path of this ill-ended adoration.
As the drop smears pitifully downward
it wonders to itself
how soon a new pearl will bulge and plummet;
if its path was flawed from the start;
if its naïve trust in gravity
leadened it, led it, let it be averted:
a whisper of sweetness, a rustle of flesh.
Adoration wonders too,
How long before a new drop bulges,
before a new itch molds a new pearl
of adoration
to fall and fall and trust
that it will quickly, lightly reach the infinitely alluring floor below,
to touch and burst and diffuse
and rest
as a perfect round dot on the infinite smooth nestling floor?
How long until its lofty potential
becomes quaking kinetic,
to become a comforted, homeward-found, flat dot on the floor?
To rest.
Not to hang potentially.
Not to flutter kinetically.
But to rest in the arms of a beloved
loved in a love
full
of
adoration.