Sooner or later the fire that i love about you is gonna turn my heart into ashes.

thank you for giving
in forgotten places love
such as needed most

Poets dream, they always do
about the impossible made possible
within stanzas and words
they think they weave magic into routine
and move hearts like the mellifluous motion of honey
dense sweet and sticky
connecting one chest to another

Poets claw through the mundane
to find the shimmering light of drama
the stirring stick, with the tumultuous traits

They cannot settle for the norm
they find it deformed
for when that happens
they reach for toxins
to remedy
the normality

The nights have
been somber around here
they are filled with
apparitions of
longing and worry

So I write poems
with a surgical knife
to cut at the wound
of my sullen cries

I should be stronger
than this
superwoman in reverse

the cobwebs come and
multiply around me
as if I were an
abandoned building
while the shadows have their
own wicked agenda

as I flutter around
like the milquetoast girl
from yesterday

I'm bullied by
quarantined nights
then saved by the morning
Sun of my resurrection