Amyelle-Rose

She thinks the poet is to blame. She'll damn his words and then his name. She thinks all poems are a crime. She'll make him live between the lines. She'll damn his words and then his name and eagerly await the shame; demand his head upon a plate - she seeks to sentence as his fate. She thinks all poems are a crime. They tease with wisdom, then with rhyme - a poet's final stab at wit, they make of him a hypocrite. She'll make him live between the lines not knowing that the words he finds, those shifting letters in between can bring the lady to her knees.

I want your kisses on my neck     like angry lightning and your fingertips stinging          every curve of my torso-- I want your lips kneading          silken heat into my collarbone     and your palms exploring the highways and alleys of me-- because darling     your eyes are so lonely and your scowls          only tempt me into aiming kisses unto your lips               til you smile; you know you're                    a star, love- but you smother your light     with self-deprecation          and you abandon your brilliance to anyone who wants               to throw it away-- give me your heart and I'll

The rain comes in from the mountainside and the musculature quietens. The birds, the beasts, the slanting cliff, the light, the restless hollowed emptiness, the bits of lava and bits of heartbeat and bits of racing animal mind. It quietens. The rain comes in like a slow blink.