Would You Still Love Me
Would you still love me if I wasn't a poet?
Would your soul still be caressed
by black-and-white words
instead of a wondrous rainbow-colored poetic verse?
Where my poet's soul paints your image on my heart
in technicolored variations from love's theme.
Would you still lay with me on the farthest hill
where earth and sky meet to bathe in the red light
from the setting sun?
Would your heart still race with a passion's fire
beneath a star-filled night with a full moon rising?
Would your love still know me as a prisoner held in your eyes,
captured by your beauty, expressed by my poet's confessions?
Where a kiss is not merely a kiss, but rather a binding of souls
locked in mutual desire.
Where the farthest stars are candles on another world
and time is an empty chalice to fill.
Would you still love me if I wasn't a poet?
Could your heart be drawn to such simple terms,
I think not, for your yearnings will answer the question.
I am nothing more than a wish fulfilled,
and you are a poet's dream of wondrous wonder.
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