Blood kissed her lips
  'pon the bane of madness,
wary of world's
         sans conscience,
she conjured her own destiny    
   as silently admonished winds
      withered the existence
        of dawning creations,
    in the name of the father and
       turbulent humility,
          beyond reproached deliverance

Sun flickered 'pon your eyes
    scintillating as the seas,
dappled with the chemistry
   of a thousand swooning moons

Poetry is a
     well-oiled function,
      processing sentiments
                for posterity

*Poetry is an extension
     of our core elements,
           royally regurgitated

Wouldn't it be lovely to write
     the way Monet
         painted masterpieces,
or Beethoven composed
       simpatico symphonies,
graciously scripting sentiments as
      utterly stunning as Neruda's
             elixirs of profound poetry ~

I'd sell my soul for an eternity of
      infinite breaths midst
                   such indubitable creations

love in the pockets
of my blue jeans
cherries white and ripe
the fabulous patchwork
of sunlight through leaves,
all ivory and ink, the sky
with its summer-sad blues.