Young Poet
Young Poet Poems
How fruitless I have toiled these sullen hours.
The only art I know is servitude-
To Labor, and in exchange of my time
Procure what we possess: this morning bread,
...
Oh how many more of those stars above
Shall I witness expiring like our love:
Coffee cups, your left slipper, notes and comb,
These restless visions of your summer tomb.
...
The days slipped by; the months morphed into years.
And between two continents-missing you
And moving on, the untamed ocean bears
Your memory. There's nothing I can do
...
We were breathless
as one scent, a union
in the fiery darkness
where our souls feast.
...
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How fruitless I have toiled these sullen hours.
The only art I know is servitude-
To Labor, and in exchange of my time
Procure what we possess: this morning bread,
Your second skin, this leather-covered seat,
This tin roof beneath the battering rain:
And all the mute and deaf and blind witnesses
Of this naked moment I share with you
Before this random peter-patter ends
And the avenging sun takes it away-
Away from the poetry of your love,
Back to the bosom of my poverty.
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4/27/2024 1:54:05 PM # 1.0.0.1119
