The Poem Lives On

Maybe the poem dies as soon as it's read and the poet dies as soon as it is written.   Maybe the reader lives vicariously through metaphors that linger like embers from a pre forest fire flame. Maybe the heat we generate isn't from sex appeal but springs forth from the mental proposals of having eyes closed.   Whispers irresistible.  Loving the way he conquers her "no." Submits her resistance like a road runner eating up pavement.  She wants him closing the distance.   Telling her he's missed her today as if yesterday was a year ago. That thug passion right after prison release.   She comes just to set him free. That deeper than deep. Should be sleep, but she has a wake up function.   Make sure doors are locked action cause what's about to happen is going to scream with satisfaction.   Completion, from foreplay to where dreams are made. Maybe it never was a poem to begin with. Maybe I'll live to experience it.