The poet writes of desire
in a notebook of fortification.
Her pages dampen by the demanding ink,
the way words lap and swirl
at her mind’s core.
Her notebook, becomes her confessional.
The lines read of yearning.
Inhibition slips from her shoulders.
She disrobes her longing in syntax.
Language becomes guttural
The blue lines become taunt with her desperate handwriting, converted half truths, and lies of the imagination.
Letters griping letters in a frenzied tilting
of a restless hand.
Wishing language could become solid
and have the certainty of flesh.
The poet writes on, in hopes of luring
the phantom lover off the paper.
Hoping art will plunge hard into life,
into tender hours, sinful Sundays,
and the softer side of midnight.
This will be my last post until next week. Happy Holidays. I wish you peace and happiness.