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.
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