condensed into a paste
smothered onto buttered toast
giving life a taste
The gargoyle frowned with his permanent face
and scuffed at the birds perched on his carapace
Even more he despised the humans below
causing a ruckus and a clamorous row.
You are a mystery to me,
God my lover,
the poet with velvet hands
and a heart like a war-drum.
I found a little poem
crying on the floor
whose dark-chocolate eyes were filled with tears
whose center was cleanly torn
Had too many glance and click away.
I thought you were here to find out:
my life story;
or why I write poetry;
or who is this person? ?
for anger or delight.
But those things, like tabloids and
stale chips for the unworked brain.
Dear, I do not want to bore
but poems I do not whore.
So read, read, read some more.
But do not read with such abandon
that you've lost sight of who you are.
You are a poet.