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Poem

He is . . . so out of my reach
And his words are like royalty to my eyes
He cradles them like he’s dealing delicate roses
Spreading them out on a dirtied, lightly lit street
Obscure words. . .that make my spine tingle
In a certain. . .pleasure, I find me back again
Crawling into the crevices of his luminous lines
Only to fall under them, holding onto the words
That I am able to. . .reeeeach! 
My heart is filled with comfort when I return
He neither catches me nor harms me
But allows me to hang on each time
Using my own strength. . . my own passion to twine
But against the odds, I willingly fall
Upon even more piles of words 
Words I have come to relate to deeply 
And words that have conquered me oh so completely
The wars of my mind cease to fight as I read
The first lines, till the end—I feed
I willingly eat and consume fire and earthy nutrients
Engorging like a lion on its prey
Never really getting enough…nor leaving enough
I take all in and wither away. . .
Reaching for the lines soon to come

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