Oh, Love

It is with delicate breath and soft hands that I create worlds for you.

I hold both in trembling regard,

Wondering if gifts of word are brilliant enough for a Universe.

Though you ignore the shards that fall from the sky,

Breaking, cutting curved edges into your frame,

I cannot ignore how it breaks you so.

False letters are to hide your fear,

Yet I know with fears how consonants and vowels often grow.

I exist to praise your radiance,

To hold the gravity while you breathe

Within the brevity of short sentences.

I would like nothing more than to tip

Countless earthly wasted lines of mercury,

Onto your shining cosmos.  

Let me melt the sun with scathing interrogation,

Allow me to quiet undeserving light,

So that you may rest in a hammock of loose promise.    

Strength from fragile wisps of language,

Strewn with morning dusk,

Is what I offer.

You must see that you are nothing less than a gold-dipped star!

So I feed you hopeful and dusted striated lines,

To take of the coldness you endure.

Reduce me to Stardust!

For I can easily repair with your light.

Oh, Love.

You remind me of the courage of a lone star on a clouded night.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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