The words, the power, the very syntax
of your verse delights me,
says the linguist in me.
The imagery flows like molten clouds
over my aging soul,
cries the artist in me.
Your rhythm reaches into my heart
and entices me to sing,
chants the musician in me.
The sensuality of your voice caresses
my pulsating skin,
moans the lover in me.
To be a poet is to passionately embrace
so many untold selves,
says the me longing to be.
[inspired by Lucy’s “The syntax of spring“]
Reblogged this on Lucy's Works and Co.
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Cheers, Lucy. You’re a dear.
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Perhaps we live life to the fullest through poetry when in reality is unattainable for whatever valid reasons.
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I have found composing (and sharing) poetry to be very cathartic. It eases me. Allows me to feel perhaps more complete. Less silent, less restrained.
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