I enjoy, the subtle shades, connotation of each word,
probe, how dexterously they are put together in an order
like jewels in an ornament for generations to wear.
The way the construct speaks to the brooding solitude
that moves in and out of my soul,as the reading proceeds.
I smell a fragrance, like the scent of fresh ripe fruit,
eager to taste it, sink my teeth deep, draw juice,
now find a memory awaiting to resonate with the
cadence of my heart.
I am such an animal
that can smell poetry's worth from a distance,
a goldsmith who could predict it's weight in gold
my avarice for a poetic diet, never dies, only swells.
Every poem of my kind, to me does something
my lover does, decidedly every imagery, carry forward
a memory, like wind a cloud, reaches a space beyond
touches eternity with it's magic wand, a flash results
Even if the poet leaves me mid way, I'd still see the light.
I've an enticing excuse to imagine what I want to see
a poem doesn't produce anything,but what it does to mind,
is pure magic,I am in that flow,far from the illusory reality.