The mind is its own beautiful prisoner,
its dark fantasies
inoculating the adjoining parts of the body
and against the will to resist,
mine gazed at the moon with its cream-colored disfigurement
and pulled out a singular thought
red as a loganberry,
its sweetness enveloping the tongue.
Unperfect is desire that paves the way for chronicles of life,
is a delicate dance of syllables that infiltrates my poetry,
searching me out as though a conversation that’s been left
in the middle,
perhaps I belong to you in sonnets
as indigo sky sets into my throat, it’s a most beautiful feeling
raw in its energy
as though a sense of warmth emerging from the cold.
Your lips are rose bud, a gateway to eloquent speech
as the world around me spins,
could this be a delusion?
could it be that I am being deceived?
If only I could touch you,
if only I could step into naked reality and have a pink flush
my face and sweating palms,
I brushed away further ideas and once again gazed
upon the sky,
the mind is its own beautiful prisoner
like the moon I am not willing to be imprisoned just yet.
Photo credits: Lush Life, Loui Jover
Posted for Poems in April @ Real Toads