Yearn
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For Constance La France's yellow, yearn, yet, yesterday words poetry contest.
“Your longing for ME is my message to you,
All your attempts to reach ME,
Are in reality MY attempts to reach you.”
Rumi
Without you,
I am a drop in the ocean,
helplessly carried away with waves.
My feet are burning in the sands of time,
leaving footsteps behind, trying to reach you.
You have always been the poem in my heart,
yet no poetry could ever define my love for you.
My pen was untrue, until you gave it sincerity.
Was I even me, until you gave me an identity?
You gave vision to vivid words,
but there is no metaphor to illustrate our passion.
No simile to describe your smile.
No onomatopoeia to portray your voice.
Are there an abundance of alliterations,
expressing the elegant enchantment of your eyes?
But there is an irony to forbidden fruit
and the term:
"be my sinner, you'll become my winner."
I yearn to taste sinful pleasures of your treasures.
Can the gardens of my poetic mind,
keep my silent ink simple,
to symbolise the enigmatic empress of colours,
illuminating from one soul to another.
There is an art to romance.
You are the palette, my fingers desire to stroke,
brushing sensual sensations,
softly whispering seductive sighs -
from your lips to your thighs.
Wrap around me like my winter scarf.
Your skin feels like an exotic fabric,
more precious than silk,
warmer than cashmere,
perfumed with heavenly scents.
I've never been a fighter,
but in your honour, I'll become a warrior,
slay the demons at your door,
slashing with my sword,
protect you from toxic vampires,
as your forever shield.
Once again the metaphors surface.
In the season of death you breathe life into me.
You flow through the arteries of my heart.
After all, what am I, but all yours.
Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2024
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