His Poetry

I could never understand his poetry.

One day he flowered me with words spun out of gossamer
their glamour making my heart swoon.
Others he would push me aside along with the
many ink-stained papers he discarded.

Some mornings his phrases were as opulent
as the smell of fresh picked strawberries
after a spring shower, others they were as
fugacious as a glance not meant to travel my way.
Sometimes his verses were an eloquent elixir,
flowing through my tongue and out of my lips
like delicious thick honey, dripping drop by drop
as a calming balm unto my heart.

And his stanzas were like the sweet petrichor
of summer afternoons after the sun has hidden away
behind the clouds and the mist that raises from the ground
gathers on the tops of the mountains.

But other times his alliteration was a
cruel, cold-blooded catalyst for my calamity
and my tumultuous tears tore the tranquility
that night had settled on the house.

His ink-stained hands would crumble my
hopes and dreams with the poems that
he thought unworthy to keep and he
blamed me for his lack of inspiration and talent.

I could never understand his poetry, it was a
labyrinth of sentences that changed with each passing day,
an evanescent caress on my cheek
and a lasting torture with each counted syllable.

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