To my first follower
This will be a love poem,
for all poems are love poems.
Fast love is the way of poets,
and are we not poets, you and I?
So my hater of titles, my quicksilver bird,
my dreamer of stars, my monochrome tulip,
my lover of the ugly, my age-cracked china,
barely sixteen and world-weary,
invisible but trapped in your own shadow,
this is my poem to tell you
that all the words of Petrarch
and every sonnet of Shakespeare
could not describe your radiance,
that you're worth more than
all the gold that slumbers
in warmth beneath the earth,
that one day you'll lie in a meadow
with the cool breeze bringing the
smell of salt to your nose,
and wonder when the constellations
got so bright.
You'll not believe a word,
but yet here I am,
writing you a love poem.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
To my first follower
This will be a love poem,
for all poems are love poems.
Fast love is the way of poets,
and are we not poets, you and I?
So my hater of titles, my quicksilver bird,
my dreamer of stars, my monochrome tulip,
my lover of the ugly, my age-cracked china,
barely sixteen and world-weary,
invisible but trapped in your own shadow,
this is my poem to tell you
that all the words of Petrarch
and every sonnet of Shakespeare
could not describe your radiance,
that you're worth more than
all the gold that slumbers
in warmth beneath the earth,
that one day you'll lie in a meadow
with the cool breeze bringing the
smell of salt to your nose,
and wonder when the constellations
got so bright.
You'll not believe a word,
but yet here I am,
writing you a love poem.
