You promised infinity
only to have a stolen love.
You promised eternity
only to be gone in the wind.

Yes, you are my love . Your voice is the revelation that heals my heart and touches my soul. I survive on the magical letters of your words. I am gifted life’s air from the breath on your lips. I have become an addicted lover of the  madness of our love . I escape with you in the vast blue oceans in your eyes.I am consumed by the US of we . Yes, you are my love , and you are so much more.

Poetry
Is all I am

And the words coil around me
Like twisting snakes

But I think the snakes like me
They distort to fit the shape of me like armor

Anyone who dares come near
I unleash the snakes upon

Beautiful boundaries designed by passion
They defend me eternally

They let me hold hands with infinity

I weave words within
an ephemeral
tapestry. a seamstress,
or a scribe of sorts.
either way you hear it;
the song remains
the same.

I understand and I do
not: a simultaneous
quantum superposition
(or superstition) for
an unutterable blazon of
infinity, encapsulated
within a granule of sand amidst
the eye of a great tempest.

I cannot claim a prophet.
no. I do not merit
such bravado.
no testament to my
works and days,
nor presumptuous air
of religiosity.

my fingers sketch out a
tempo through the
       c  
          u
             r  
          v  
        e  
          s  
of letters,
a form which
sings and dances
for those who cannot.

there are days i long for
the allure of philosophy.
writing.
a less personal affair,
but only to a degree.

rather than what i do.

such responsibility, to hold
another's fragile mental
stability within the palm
of my hand!

i am no healer, i do not
offer cures. no. the
gravitation i hold
is simply an

   e  
        c    
             h
                  o

of everything
which shall always
be nothing more than
the reverberation of my soul.

i am not a poet.
my mother tongue is not
within clever word
play or meter.

i speak the words of the
effervescent
cosmic tapestry
within the singing
of the spheres.

there is a quiet history in
that celestial symphony,
an Edda of instrumental
humming all that
was and shall be.