poets starved for age
mill about like scavengers. their voices
tight with lowercase inclinations,
exquisite and flavorful;
the taste of peach ice tea
pooling on the concrete. a
tree clipped from the ground in
a flash of light. i read them, follow
them, though i hate to say it, but
i am not among them.
lowercase ideals; non polished.
they let the words speak for
themselves without adornment.
sparking gusts of love, leaving
trails of romanticism in their wake.
sighing, i fear i am too old for
such unyielding young love.