you're the young poet with old poetry;
            the old poet with youthful energy,
            the poet all aspire to reflect to be,
you're the poetry found under every rock,
over-
turned
amongst the gritty hard packed dirt of life,
and wet earthen scent, that hold secrets and
the tangled tiny trail of invisible insects steps,
walked on,
*******-
tight, a rope
of guttaral sounds, leaves your fingertips,
sure to express, hurt to joy, of unuttered pains,
that some shrug off as skin thickening lacquer
poured on hot, caught with your guard
down
and
bare
blue sky with a ball of molten ***** flesh pounding in a chest
the discarded remnant, that lost a voice as those around, wore deaf ears
the sensuous flesh that shivered at the touch of perfect sounds
breathed along your curves with warmth that lifted condensations'
crescendo
to fill the
sky, fingers
and hands
balling clouds
like sheets on
your bed
you're the poetry that will save the Earth and the people in it,
             the poetry that will burn when slammed back fast,
             the poet which carves word layers of life, off your thick skin,
             the poet who writes new words on again, translucent,
you're not the one we have been waiting for,
you have been here all along...twelve...ohh...one