Voice of My Poetic Lover

It is perfectly preposterous not To fall in love with poetry. For the poet creates the air… …And the heavens Sweet verses we breathe. The first time he made love to me We danced. He led me one word unto another Leaving me entranced In his stanza. He chanced a pen stroke Then spoke his flow Slow, deep inside of me. It mystified me… Kinetic heat, in theory, Lyrically emulsified beats… …And liquefied my sheets, Literally! Over again He cried his piece Rekindling my misery. The memories from his words Stirred my emotions unheard Upon deaf ears He referred it to: Open-My-Heart Surgery - Poetically taking me apart while Piecing me together phonetically… …He controlled me. I’s his faithful servant To which I followed him fervently Deserving his expressions commends I married them Condemned To no end… That night I became MissApprehend: “The Lover of Hymn” Yet all over him I misunderstand his rhythm. Vague traces of symbolism Plagued the pages like Some “Bubonic” Organism In spite of skepticism… He vaccinated all criticism! With that Blasé Blah mannerism Nonetheless, I loved him thru the prism Of unspoken words It never occurred to me That Karma’s relevance Was written in silence Benevolence was the medium He needed me And I needed him We are the “HE” and the “POET” Though it stand to be no other Voice of My Poetic Lover.