Love is annihilation of consciousness,
with touch as cold as ice, penetrating
deep into a Poet’s bones.
You can feel its heart when storm clouds
rumble in the sky, feel words unblunted
cut through path of every false promise
Love, is the tickle of marigold’s tongue,
a grey lightly raining morning in June,
and poems that bleed beneath harvest
Can you hear me murmuring its restless
I devoured a bag of honey-dew wisdom
knowing once the spirit’s rose is dead—
shall fade, which tinged, with colors of
Photo credits: Unsplash
Word list: Bones, annihilation, dead, ice.
Posted for Poems in April @ Real Toads