In My Poem, There Is Of You Poem by A Waltz For Zizi

The world does not see me writing,
the poem that struggles for attention
from a sunny girl that used to make me cry
at least a cup of tears a day.

In my poem
I kiss you for the adventure,
for who knows where the trails
from that used lips of yours
may lead me, to wander my anxious hands,
and I can only imagine
what feathered creatures dwell
in that labyrinthic heart of gold
where you decided to hide your brave heroes
from me.
Was there an Icarus among them? ,
that flew out into the arms his sun,
stealing your hopes of a true love
leaving you in tears, in the shower,
to embrace the bones of a long dead minotaur.

In my poem
I'm a collector of small things,
like hand holdings and hugs,
heartbeats and emotioins,
the kisses on the neck
being my all time favourite.

In my poem
live giants.
They're antique pickers
visiting my heart's insides
where rust lies upon rust
and then upon you and my memories of you.
Antique feelings of love is what they want
for refurbished, they can sell as new
to the collectors of you.
My love, they say
is the rarest one you had
and that's why my heart
is now a very precious mine.

In my poem
The Atlantic ocean that sailed our hearts
in different directions
I adore it
it's waves, kissing our touching feet
in ways that make you giggle.
I never knew that you were so easy to tingle.

In my poem
i've bowed my head at the feet of you,
lower than a monk that prays to his god,
although you're only a rag for the men of this world.
I'm a naive boy, what can I say.

In my poem,
even there, you seem to love someone else,
but tell me:
what man beside me, would be brave enough
to be god
and to make worlds anew, for you?