Montag, 25. April 2016
A search, a question
Fluid motion in old patterns, you and I.
See, I even used the polite form.
Not that you'd appreciate that.
Do I know you? Do I even want to?
Will your spell be strong enough?
Will your promise keep it's word?
Or will you wither and die?
Will you bend with the remover to remove?

What ever is it I want from you?
I want you to be my muse,
Be my inherent poetry,
Draw from me my last breath,
Pull on my last string of words,
Make my written worlds crumble and fall
And help me live out of nothing but love and red wine,
Space and poetry,
Beauty and verses.

I want you to tell me of blue flowers,
To give me a motive
And tell me to expand upon it.
Be my resistance,
Be my impediment.
I want you to make me waver,
Make me shake with the sheer power
Of poetry,
Make my skin itch with tortured sentences,
Make my imprisoned words dance,
Make my verses restless,
With the promise of freedom.
Make me
and derailed.

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