Of Muses And Other Ghosts
When I Write You Poems
'But if I write poems, my heart what shape does it takes? - I've asked my pencil today.'
To write you another poem, is not hard
but are they of any use to you?
Are you able to see
more than blue ink
spilled on white, thin, sheets of paper?
Would you try to lay a kiss, again, on my lips?
if I'd push them, under your door, tonight
Or better, should I burn them, at your bare feet?
to make your heart feel warm, and cozy, in the dark.
Woul you at least, praise me, for my kind words?
as you praised those monsters before me
that hurt you, with love shaped lies.
To me, every word and letter
every comma or dot, that takes them apart,
takes different forms of your painted green eyes
creating new islands and continents
in this sea of absent... no, stranded kisses,
sailing you beyond my fingers grasp,
and rising you, higher than the highest star,
again and again, from the gentile grave,
where every day I try
to poeticaly put you to death.
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Comments about this poem (When I Write You Poems by Of Muses And Other Ghosts )
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