on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.

Before you know, you're in your thirties,
Recalling all the days that'd come and gone,
Immixed with nostalgia memories,
Tedious friendships that lasted,
Temporary ones that passed,
Although it's difficult to differentiate,
None I've had with real substance,
Yet here you are, always there...
Picking me up from my self desolation,
Reassuring that I have some value,
Insisting there's worth,
Commiserating my woes,
Everything that defines a friend.

A chariot is thine heart,
O thou rich tressed Selene
In which doth ride the tides,
of ardor, tepid aflame.

Strung to thy chariot by chords
Unseen yet tangible knot,
Whither thy chariot wandereth,
Thither draggeth me, constrained.

The chord unseen, yet bindeth,
Ethereal, tenuous sublime,
A barb so dolorous in seasons!
Other times candescent delight.

What causeth this bond precision?
Nay no reasonable cause,
Entrapped in each a residue
from prior existence unknown?

Why doth the string pull so constant,
Tho' intervenes a thousand miles!
Why cometh thine chariot  instant,
When unseen, my spirits' downcast?

Selene! ageless,deathless, thy Endymion,
Eternal though his sleep,
Our souls entwined forever,
Many an aeon shall we keep!!!

Love is but a game I've never played..
But through you,
I've learned all the ***** rules..
Game on..

To have you in my dreams..
devoid of just a touch..
is but a nightmare..
a barren land..
my destitute.