Here I am at the beginning again.
I found myself here thinking I was going the right way.
It seemed straight, it seemed right,
it felt good.
I was dizzy from happiness.
I never stopped to realize my swooning was my own doing;
running down this road with you in
For those who find themselves on the other side of things.
What is a poet to do
when his favourite muse
faints whilst making love,
a victim of passions fuse.
To carry on regardless?
Perhaps slap her lovely cheek?
Mouth 2 mouth no tongue?
Or maybe implore her to speak?
A lesser poet
shakes her anxiously
and writes a verse about prowess and spooning.
A True poet
carries on regardless
and writes a sonnet about his muse and swooning.
© Pagan Paul (23/05/18)
5th poem in my series Even Poets ***** Up ...
I only write these when in the silliest of moods!
With each breath drawn, the distance which parts our bodies will evaporate, like dew after dawn.
And with each exhale of humid breath, the time taken slipping out of fabrics slows to a streamlined unveiling; that could entwine me until death.
Soliloquys of repitoires
He pulls out the demon-arm
To see if harm
Feels better than being alone.
His hearts at "home..."
He has needs.
Nothing & everything... all at once.
— The End —