The Poet is merely the carrier of the imagination.
A host, it walks through life with a parasitic need
to create life forms with her pen and paper
letting all of the world hear her cries of pleasure.
The Poet spends her days capturing
the hearts of those who pass by,
and keeps them pressed on the pages of her journals,
catalogued on the shelves of her library.
The Poet paints in the night sky
the stars and the constellations,
and lures the moon closer to her balcony
with the verses that dance off her tongue.
The Poet bleeds her thoughts onto the lines that
in front of her lie, she cuts her skin with the
truths she spreads on paper and dries
her tears with the backs of her inspirations.
The Poet is a benevolent sun looking at the Earth;
a humble observant servant of the universe unknown.
She is the sweet breeze that travels the mountains,
bringing caressing scents in her arms.
The Poet plays in the edges of the curved initials
of lovers on the bark of the old oak by the pond.
She dances on the fingers of hands that hold hands
and thrives on the sparks that lips that brush lips create.
The Poet seduces the truth inside a person’s eyes
and takes their secrets to her heart
whispers them onto the petals of paper flowers
for them to be whisked away by the summer winds.
The Poet is merely the carrier of the imagination,
a gentle observer of the way life moves.
She makes love come alive with her pen and paper
letting her own self become ink in time.