This poetry is hard to grasp, encased and held by golden clasp. It comes to me in shouting screams and pulls apart my mind-heart’s seams. It beats against my head and yet, when poetry and I we met, still young and not yet broken me (my rhythmic rhymes it helped me see) became enveloped in the dark and drowned within a violent mark.
Yet now no darkness can I write, this poetry has set its sight upon a perfect poet such as one might love, yes… far too much.
These verses that now flow with ease, they push me down upon my knees and force me, hold me, make me taste a metaphor I must not waste.
As gently you caress my words, whose broken wings like flightless birds, you’ve elevated from the pain and held them fast in dripping rain, and moist and soaking here they are, upon a page that’s placed afar, yet touch you with them may I just, as fearfully I place my trust, within your arms, and lonely charms, your essence takes me yet it calms.
And though the words I twist and turn, as silently in love I burn, the scalding heat that bathes me bare is freezing and cannot compare with private whispers held in Time, eternal like a silent chime whose sound will carry swift my voice, and ask you no divisive choice, yet only may I try to speak before this love will make me weak.
And words and meanings seem so poor, I wish and want that they’d mean more, they halt my heart for as it bleeds, you heal it with your light and deeds. And as I sit within your sight, transparent do I feel, yet right. I fear my soul you clearly see, a vision of enamoured Me.
Unbreakable this need of mine,
Intense, these shivers down my spine
And all that I can gently do…
This secret, silent verse for you.