Concrete

No figure to
your drawings
no color to your brush.

I sneak to your letters
I see there
is no ink to your pen.

No sugar to your skin
nor sparkle to your eyes.

Your songs lack melody
and your tunes have
no rhyme.

I know you’re of pain
& transparent heavy rain,
chivvying music from
the broken church bell.

There is nothing
to you but the smell
of washed soil
fresh basil & thyme.

You’re like the abstract copy
of lost time, except
for your scents
that give quivers
like see-through thunder.

And I wonder,
what is it about your fragile
hands and trembling feet,
that makes your love so attractive,
and your soulless figure so concrete ?