Poetry Is My Lady

Poetry is my Lady

Beckoned by the branches of this solitary tree,
my fingers trace an owl’s feather to my face
as I embrace her ethereal touch.
Never knowing her name or the meaning
of her silent words at play, she remains
a stranger in the dark of my karmic past.

Come Lady let your hands play upon my skin,
let silence end where you begin.
Let our bodies dance together beyond mortal touch,
for you are my release, my confession!
For there exists no poet who writes
of something they desire to forget!

Continue reading