Poet

Poet

Apparently so I am a poet you know
Never knew that words alone
Could topple the king and cast the throne
Within this puddle of mud . . . , my brain you see.
Sometimes there happens chemical imbalance, very scary.
Words seem to pour into thought, then spill over into formations
Anything goes, from sordid dark tales of dames and dragons
The movement of planets , alignment of the moon over eons
Light cascading from a lovers eyes, fading into a river steam within a dream.
Cornucopia of imagination, rich fulfilling shameless sensual sensation.
I live to love with passion beyond, love to live until my last breaths abscond.
Never to fail the desired lust for life, lust of melancholy cuts like a knife.
It is not only to read poetry; you have to feel the point of entry.
Instant when the writer and reader connect, and you feel their love, lost or regret.
You say I make you feel Oh so . . . . . . . . , my words make your soul flee.
And you will never know , just how intimately, you have touched me.
All recorded and replayed in extra slow mow.
I feel your music, I drink your tune
You strip me naked; I melt within the cold month of June
Nude be your palette, my body , my mind your canvas, colour me then
In all the shades of rhyme, words, song and praise of Zen.
Tell me my love, tell me, I am a poet then.
Retha Smit ©13 / 12/2011