Around her, I wrap
my consonance and alliteration
like the arms of a wandering
lonesome stranger.
And upon her ears,
I lay aphorisms and missives,
manicured lines
in a collar of kisses.
Her eyes are closed
as I recite,
her heart hears
the secrets
that my poems try to hide
…from both of us…
Oh, but my words are
a thin disguise.
Mindlessly drumming
with a dried ink pen,
scanning the book stacks,
their dusty ruins
of too much literature
amidst a dearth
of truly living
on this sensual earth.
Tricked by my quest
for a poem’s last line,
I keep rewriting her face
until the truth untwines
the tangle I’ve made in the garden of love.
As much as she reads,
no verse is diverse enough,
for the buds on high branches
are beginning to weep
while I’m drunk with the fragrance
of flowering weeds.
Truth is beauty,
which without love, deceives.
Her preferred poem is silence,
so the poet leaves.
