I want to tell you everything I know about myself and so expose when the moon hangs low,
Growing nearer as the stars glow gallantly in comparison to the brightness in your eyes when I have you in my orisons.
Core untrimmed, contents revealed:
I’ve known loves that dropped like out of the sky,
Didn’t pull my chute out of fright and plummeted instead to the ground,
Ended it with the clack that resounded extra loud.
Clack! Rounds rebounded, stored and stacked,
Some might say he’s slack in the stack stored upon his back,
Boasts a knack at knocking words together,
To turn them toward some poetry,
When the fact he’s writing poetry should yet fill her with some worry, see?
Show me a stable poet and I’ll show you some boring poesy,
Someone stationary can just be but poets feel a fire that ought never to surcease,
Unless doused deliberately, which sounds like a shame to me.
So give me fuel and I’ll burn, revolve and turn, another silent star marvelling at your manner, thirsts to learn of you and raise up as my banner:
Artifacts attached at the base of the tree in the soil that separates you from me,
Entwine and twirl roots, unfurled in flowering fields at its base, upturned.
I want to pick bouquets of you made of the lilacs of your melancholy,
The daisies of your disarray,
lillies of your listlessness, and
Roses of your rubied praise.
I’d stay for days, deliberately examining every specimen,
Stand in defense of every blushing blade of sin,
Fake flaws that you wear beneath your skin.
I’d spin safely and state plainly how beautiful you remain, not to satisfy your vanity or just to keep me sane, but because the thought otherwise would just bounce around my brain.
An old refrain that harkens yet so new,
And makes the world astute,
a stable sanctuary built in truths,
Deduced from clues to be cobbled yet in time,
When we about each other take to find.