Free Verse # 375 (my poem, what has it become?)

poses her hands
on my shoulders
like a forgotten lover
who wants the world to burn
with desire for her kiss,
so I burn and kiss her
with the lips of poetry.


My poem is a clock
that doesn’t tick;
my poem is a silent clock
always pointing towards her moon;
my poem is a clock
ticking in her womb.


His touch dilutes the moon
in the silk of her skin;
she walks and the night
around her trembles,
his waters rising
to wash her feet.


The autumn rain falls,
Under the brown leaves
Fireflies awaken,
The fires of longing
Burning in their wings
As they flutter and lead us
In the forest deep
To the beginning of all things,
To a heartbeat in our chest
Pulsing with spring.


My poem…
a flower poised
amid her thighs.


Today on my birthday
What do I wish for ?
What do I wish for?
That I always have
A jasmine flower
To tuck in your hair
Beloved poetry.


This poem inside of me
Will not let me sleep,
With the burning lips of the night
It wants to touch you.


Like an eyeless candle
Burning in the night
Without you in my heart
My eyes cannot sleep


Soaked in dew
the parched earth sighs at dawn,
its scent wafting to my bed
and caressing my lips
with the warmth of her name.


My poem,
what has it become?
A garland of stars
dripping from her dark hair,
in the candle of her eyes
a moth burning.


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