You’re music that drags,
a lyric that begs for the next line,
verse out of turn,
poetry that makes all and no sense.
You’re prose that doesn’t care for order,
rhyme that does what it wants,
you’re meter that causes hearts to skip,
allegory beyond conjure,
a dance of fire,
madness with no cure.
What have you left in all of this mess?
Chaotic and perfect,
disorderly, but oh so worth it,
who cares for things that add up,
where’s the fight in that?
I’ll take my chances with odd notes,
off beats and smudged ink,
a poem on you wrist,
a tattoo on your clavicle,
a beggars desperation.
The ruins of beating a heart until it’s frantic with love,
until it burns your mind to smithereens,
are the ashes of reconciliation with your soul.
It’s always love,
mad, one way love.
W.E.
lonerloaner 