A speechless poet, what a sight to see,
as silent as a monk woe to break his vow,
yet, a shooting star, a single arrow,
showing the poet a path to make a wish upon,
beckons beyond the reach of a wretched man.
Having tasted what he cannot,
dare not have, the poet released,
the slightest of a tremor,
felt as an avalanche by a lover,
awakening desires buried,
set aside as fragile as porcelain
to be rediscovered, to be protected, to be adored,
having tasted what he cannot,
dare not have, the poet betrayed by a tremor,
feeling his poetry become real, speechlessly.
As her night ink strokes the poet’s imagination,
his desire to insatiably find rare emotion,
within the sky, to feed his spontaneity,
to feed his romance, to feed his truth,
leaves him floating into the starry night.
As two stars, moving slowly in the night sky,
towards the gravity of the other,
that unmistakable flurry of butterflies,
clouds our visions, creating a new constellation of romance.
Watching her midnight moon touch the stars,
passing over, so near, so distant,
each twinkles in anticipation of that touch,
that moment when fingertips finally brush,
and static fills our ears with harmony.
Embracing the softness of her beauty,
the poet is left wordless, left bare,
left with the reality,
that poetry is real.
The poet peels back the resonance of her night,
revealing another star, in the glory of her gravity,
pulling the poet’s heart from his chest.
The depth at which he knows he must travel to know her,
to touch her, to have her as his own,
means nothing, as her fire draws him,
into a kiss, so delicious, his words will forever pale to describe when poetry becomes real.