Wordplay

Wordplay is what we do best, 

falling deeper with each new breath.

Only we know ...

The threat of a question mark, 

The promise of a full stop, 

the anticipation of ellipsis... as the pencil drops. 

The looping scrawl of your name, quickens my heart rate, the beauty with which you write, keeps me awake all night. The enigma of each and every new recount, allows my mind to wander and my innocence to doubt. 

      I only worship at your pen, I wish to drown in your prose, use my blood as ink, and make my bones stepping stones. If I appear in your words in any which way, then life will have reason, and there I shall stay.

             Your book is my temple, and under the covers I seek, allow me to enter and through your verse shall I speak. In the curve of your spine, I will make your sentence mine, I will serve it long and true, just to be close to you.

                          I am lost amidst the empty white space, so to your letters I cling, I seek out the capital and make you my King. 

You disarm me with your weapon, so much mightier than the sword, you keep me trapped within parenthesis, a side note to your thoughts. Your foreplay is relentless, your touch erotic, your lineage is hypnotic and your twisted game despotic.

One day you write a final letter, a sonnet to your muse... I now lie with the other pages, tossed aside and used. For I should know that genius takes inspiration from more than just one source, 

                                    and my work for you has finally run it's sorry course. 

I hope to be remembered as a footnote - somewhere on page 69. Remembering the times we had and the treasure you were to find. Heroines always die young; you told me that once... they shine like a star, then just as suddenly they are gone. 

                                     I kept hold of the letter, kept it under my bed,  

                                     Just in case my demons return, and demand to be fed.

If I could climb inside the envelope and live there, then all the better --- but my obsession is my due to pay, and my lord you are the debtor. 

'Tis my own bed that I have made, to fall for one, who lives inside not only our world, but many more than one.

                                     

Reviews

[Neal S]

I dig the structure of this. Its odd but I enjoy it. Normally poets write about their muse but I like this flipped point of view of the muse. Very cool!