Let me sleep until I write, ” My dreams are spun in you.”
Comatose would be my choice if never more a verse burst from my loins.
Barren in this wasteland, dried up floundering on the sand,
don’t poke me with, “It will be all right.” Just let me sleep it off,
until I pick up a pen and write a memory or a love song.
Agony is when you’re near the end, sustained by drops into your veins.
When a poet’s drying up, the nurse is never found and empty bottles
swing and sway above her in the breeze-less room.
Choking on the vacuum, eyes searching and never finding, fading,
not a tube could save her life tonight, not one measure from ordinary means.
Yes, I prefer the darkness, the day shut down, and I am left alone.
This is how I try to woo my lover, to give me gifts of flowing words.
She comes because she wants to, not because of me, for my summons’s never heard,
but poetry is on her lips, and in her arms she brings me treasures, just because.
Only the muse can wake me. Only her lips can start my heart to beat.
Lover like no other, take me away from the sterile white of static sickness.
I drink from you, I drink from you, all else is frozen in its place, like death turned dust,
because in your arms I come to life with that first line pressed wet into my depths
And when you ask,”Are you still my poet?” I cry out,”You know I am. Oh yes! “
February 28, 2014
* The image used is entitled, “acry431-13-70×74-750.jpg 2014 by Coma