i could never write for You –

 

epics of (cl)amorous grandeur,/

or golden, placating sonnets

that line each keystone of poetic canon./

 

but for You, Siren, i shall sing of a/

Love that escapes, like Water/

bursting loudly through the/

weathered, iron gates,/

of language, temporal,/

bound to the mettle that is/

Life, its confined mess, as/

its voice echoes, rattles, protests at/

rusted bars.

 

but Ours belongs not in the cage: of versed lines: and rehearsed recitals,: the oratorios of aged, sage old men: who have attempted to pen: Our loving

 

 

Silence.

 

that is the caress of cool, dewy finger tips,

on a sleeping, fevered forehead

or

the kiss of a warm wave, lapping against

tentative, daring toes

pushing gently, to open these

Ancient doors.

for Ours is of

 

 the ebb and Hush.

the quiet yawn of waking

together

in the middle of the day,

when Love’s waters

stream in through dark curtains,

like a pink afternoon light

and bathe, drown

Us

in the noiseless deep

of the Pull

and the Tide,

of Climax

and Release

 

and like Our lovers’ conversation: the intercourse between: climax and release: We, as vast and as infinite as water,: belong not in the realm of:

 

Words;

           but somewhere,

in an ocean/

Beyond/

and the truth is, my Dear,/

 

i could never write for you, least –

 

of Love that is murky with/

Noise and words/

For that would be/

Dishonest,/

and Our Love is pure; it must remain untouched/

by the polluting invention of Man/

 

For such is the natural state of

Water.