Love, what have I to do with thee?
We parted in the dewy heat of yesterday
Yet yearning remains, echoing
Till time runs short, grieving
Amidst a crown of stars.

Gone for moments to pass,
Bleeding hearts die and fade away.
Freely, invisibly;
It stutters plainly in verses
After the thrill is gone.

The more I look,
The more she touches me
Profusely.

Her eyes peel my very
Skin, my essence
Of spontaneity's mirth.

Her hair flows down
To my heart's contagion
Motionless of no cure
But to give in,

Though I burn.

Someone dropped a pen.
His name was Prose.
"Write." Said he.
"Use it to bind ideas
With its tears as the rope."
So I tried.
But my strength
Rattles on his weight.

"Let me interfere."
Said Poetry.
"Scrape what you have done
And let your heart
Do the talking."
So I did.
Now I speak
In deeper linings.