Voice of My Poetic Lover
It is perfectly preposterous not
To fall in love with poetry.
For the poet creates the air…
…And the heavens
Sweet verses we breathe.
The first time he made love to me
We danced.
He led me one word unto another
Leaving me entranced
In his stanza.
He chanced a pen stroke
Then spoke his flow
Slow, deep inside of me.
It mystified me…
Kinetic heat, in theory,
Lyrically emulsified beats…
…And liquefied my sheets,
Literally!
Over again
He cried his piece
Rekindling my misery.
The memories from his words
Stirred my emotions unheard
Upon deaf ears
He referred it to:
Open-My-Heart Surgery -
Poetically taking me apart while
Piecing me together phonetically…
…He controlled me.
I’s his faithful servant
To which I followed him fervently
Deserving his expressions commends
I married them
Condemned
To no end…
That night I became
MissApprehend:
“The Lover of Hymn”
Yet all over him
I misunderstand his rhythm.
Vague traces of symbolism
Plagued the pages like
Some “Bubonic” Organism
In spite of skepticism…
He vaccinated all criticism!
With that
Blasé Blah mannerism
Nonetheless,
I loved him thru the prism
Of unspoken words
It never occurred to me
That Karma’s relevance
Was written in silence
Benevolence was the medium
He needed me
And I needed him
We are the “HE” and the “POET”
Though it stand to be no other
Voice of My Poetic Lover.
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