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a poet, painter,

pushed his face into his hands and wept

wondering of the peeling inspiration

that left him abandoned with only the bittersweet memory of her kiss,

the pale slopes and contours and shades

and grace she gained at a cost.

the jejune spices she gave

fruits of barren wombs resulted in the plethora of his sorrow;

instead, he pressed her blue-stained eyes fingers to the base,

and blew a song

over her fragile bones, a longing so missed by her adultery.

a poet, philosopher,

looked to the stars, and wrote

of her smile beckoning him to the ends of the world

he gave all he could offer on a poor man’s dreams

at the end of a one-way street

this is he a keeper of secrets i’ve given to him.

he spoke of a poet, who died alone,

said he was a profound speaker who sailed upon the seas.

he who walked in an inferno

played upon a mandolin

its notes exotic and rumbling to foreign ears

a painting he left behind, his wife

inspired with her unripe maturity

he never minded none, he never minded too much.

a poet, sculptor,caressed and made the full cheeks

her low eyes paled and blinded themselves

and he took the blame for her crying soul.

she forgot to leave his heart next to her farewell note and keys—

she fled before he could say it all.

a poet, musician,

created music on her dotting, pregnant foothill

slaved her cool, blue oceans that he near drowned in.

her sweet nectar dried in his throat

gave reason to choking on a smile,

perfection he never meant.