Her. I feel her heartbeat as she comes nigh reverberating through my bones awakening me from unconscious consciousness Id lie down my soul for her feet not to get dirty My spirit moves that it might attract her eye to the under skin me Id haiku her from head to foot but an unjust work would it be To poet her would take all languages in collaboration in an endless well of the finest ink with a quill of an angels wing Verbalizing her is as planing to rope the wind and believing it can be done I proudly parade her on my right arm as if a man adorned with kingship Or a knight knighted above all other noble knights And yet she is no trophy but rather a preciously priceless family heirloom Passed down through the eons with absolute gentle care and then placed in my care for safe keeping as though I were her locket Id write every second of her existence to fill the world throughout that it might know her but again the language I would have to borrow angelic words and phrases, sentence structures and passion from the very throne room of heaven in order to pen one second Theres a pain of missingality in my my side , a phantomistic agony of missing rib bone and marrow when we part that subsides only as we turn in and she is close to the place of missing. I cannot punctuate he beauty for it cannot be stopped or broken up But is as the never ending run on sentence. To write of my love for this creature is to be at loss of word and hand function, to vainly attempt to capture the uncapturable and a bottomless too with no lid
Posted on: Sun, 06 Jul 2014 00:18:00 +0000
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