Free Verse # 429 (What is the poet?)

What is the poet if not a vampire with a thirst for bitter blood — the fire blood of poetry?


My hands move along her skin
like pilgrim birds
with their flight tracing
the eternity of the sky


The hidden tangible in her
that with every touch
I aim to invoke,
that I desire to caress
with my mere presence,
the depth of my heart,
the penetrative gaze of my soul;
I dampen her and excite her light
as my focus remains, centered,
on the ground of her being,
her core.


I wait for you
on the curve of something infinite
where the sea meets the sky,
in my hand
a flowering branch of jasmine
and a poem I wrote long ago
when my heart was still a child’s;
I wait for you,
my heart the burning pages of a poem
dripping with longing for your smile.


Entering my room
through the open window
your breath dishevels
the string of my thoughts
and awakens my longing;
the candle stirs
in her vertical burning
and my palms fill
with the rose-petals of your name.


With the night
your ghost comes
to torture me,
a gossamer figure
drawn with a soft fading fire
against the starry sky.

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