passionless poet
Poet;
More of a mortal who worships your immortality,
How I lost my originality as you tainted my trunk-dyed doors,
Your presence stealing my sanity,
O, you had honey of a soul,
Fishing in bees,
Their vexatious sounds harmonies to your deaf ears.
I wait days,
To spill ink filtered from thoughts of your frank ocean eyes and rose hair.
Days passed,
I keep waiting, watching the raveled clouds unravel into cluster of stars,
I used to muse them in ink in the past
Tho’ their evolution a mere scientific apathy now,
O, the deadliest despair of a poet.
And as the seagulls fly over the turquoise oceans, their reflections swift masterpieces,
I stay home in the thoughts of you,
I live and I breathe,
I sleep and I may die,
For my art without you would be passionless,
And I would rather be eaten by desert vultures
Than be called a poet with strayed passion.
