The moment words were writ, under she fell
So deep within his magnetising soul
As he was heaven, so was there no hell;
Their stories born anew out of the old.
A breath, a touch, a word, or just a thought
From books resigned to rest upon a shelf
Prevented pages saying what they ought;
Instead, their voices spoke the things they felt.
Two characters the same yet far away;
Their distance until now so unforeseen;
Together they now write themselves a play;
Providing that they speak the things they mean.
No banishment be cast nor fools unheard;
While truth and passion speaks in written word.
Those eyes of his are eyes I’ve seen before;
His face so soft and careful like his heart;
His words so fixed I read them like a cure;
Such wisdom there that’s waiting to impart.
The smallest ears can listen like they’re grand;
The finest skin may glisten with life’s dew;
As words be writ and edited by hand;
So words be raw, uncooked, yet overdue.
A meeting met, where fleeting feet be put;
A life that cycles over and again;
And from two corners, instinct, and a trust:
If words be books then hearts be Mice and Men.
Dear reader, read this poetry tonight;
While poets, of their passion must they write.
I kept a place inside my heart for him;
A chamber where he stayed and gave me life;
A place where there was never room for sin;
This heart of mine had never loved so right.
The beats of love and poetry dispersed;
Through every single aspect of my soul;
I sang his name and wrote his heart in verse;
But then, as always, newness soon grew old.
For love could never be, nor ever spoke;
I had to take it down from tattered sleeve;
Time chipped away, re-breaking what was broke;
No empathy, nor passion, nor reprieve.
The wasted heart accepts dead poetry;
There never was a place in his for me.