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
made.

Love, is the tickle of marigold’s tongue,
a grey lightly raining morning in June,
and poems that bleed beneath harvest
moon.

Can you hear me murmuring its restless
tune?

I devoured a bag of honey-dew wisdom
knowing once the spirit’s rose is dead—
shall fade, which tinged, with colors of
regret.

 

Photo credits: Unsplash

Word list: Bones, annihilation, dead, ice.

Posted for ‘Poems in April’ @ Real Toads

Posted on Poetry Pantry @ Poets United