The Poem

He’s only with me for a day, my heart
entwined with every word, my soul infused
with passion, thoughtfulness, a part
of me that gives its all, and then is used
to show a spark of joy, the black of grief,
the drawn-out green of longing, wanting so.

She chatters, even cries, with such relief,
as if I’ve held her, would not let her go.
Sometimes a pinkish pitcher hits the floor
or Monarch butterflies return to home,
a mirrored ghost appears in shadows, or
the drafts confront me looking for a tome.

It has been said that love is only hate
turned inside out, a dagger thus withdrawn,
the bleeding stopped, a sudden cursed berate
slipped back inside the throat, all ill-will gone.

And so, the lyrics sing and mesmerize
my pencil into coitus, then relax,
commit themselves to bits that won’t revise.
Its care for me just leaves its love–gone tracks.


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