Memories choke me,
and leaves me silent,
so I open up my soul, to scribe you in
metaphors that I can, taste, touch and
feel; but tears fall like bleeding rain,
staining empty pages, before I can
lay down my heart. And in
whispers
I plant dreams of you
as forget me knots,
pressed as dried
roses,
between linen
pages of my heart’s
lament, where
I’ve recorded
the most
fragile parts
of me, in
verses
that flow and
forms my completion;
free verse, sonnets
and rhymes,
uninhibited and unbound,
trickling from my pen held hand.
Poetry inspired, by a muse
that bears your name;
pleasure and pain.
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