Free Verse # 200 (her body, his landscape)

Poetry from her eyes escapes
as sparks from the bonfire,
an infinitely minute taste
of her boundless desire.


With her brush every star she wields,
Then stroking, gently,
Paints the canvas of the night
Into a poem burning bright.


Her body was the landscape
where all his memories
lived and perished,
where his every seed
became flower then fruit
then poetry.


No word could utter
the depth of his longing,
so every word
on the altar of silence
perished into poetry.


To read a poem one must write it again, only this time in blood-letters and upon the pages of one’s heart.


Night—another name for her hair as it shadows the earth.


Embracing her skin
the night mist melts
into cool, pure dew,
in endless streams gathers
and through her curves flows,
morning songs, poetry.


Let it burn on your tongue
this drop of honey
which your bees have suckled
from my flesh,
the garden of poetry.

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