There she sits, history of goddesses. Food all over her, eyes of men feeding, yet, where most she satisfies, only causes more hunger. When she cries, a hymn of gods, all men sing along, or did I want to say cry along? I left my door open, for they say she’s a thief, I’d love to be robbed. She passes, yes, she passes, by my porch she passes, eyes raking, gown sweeping, thoughts cloaked, angels frowning, wind singing, trees dancing, leaves falling in love. Now old soul, you will dare to forgive me, all my life, I’ve been led to drink, unfortunately from the dirty waters of the saying that true love does not exist, okay, what lingers in my spines, if they be not true love, will the earth not crumble?
You’re a poem, the poets from whose inks you were made, cannot begin to understand you. You’re a painting dear, too real to be unreal, too unreal to be real, too physical to be spiritual and too spiritual to be comprehended even by the painters of awe. And gods have set Olympus on fire, gazing at you. Angels have abandoned the gardens of Eden, in pursuit of the mysterious you, my adorable Eden.
I have washed myself clean, lay me I did on the rough sacrificial alter of love. If you’re a killer, I lay my neck bare, willing to die. But if you’re not, hold my hand, let me show you what a writer can do.
I’ll build you a world; the sun will warm your bath, the air will bring the cologne, the moon your pillow while the clouds beg to be made beds. And I’ll be a rainbow of colours, bending diagonally across the night and day, ever radiant, ever caring, ever protective, all glories flashing. And I’ll show you an arrow in between my hind pillars, one of a kind, crying to be buried in your legendary pool, a galleon in full sail, all guns blazing. And I’ll pierce you with it, at first it’ll sting, but then it’ll not. And when it connects us soul to soul, eyes shall behold eyes, lips shall go to war with lips and tongues shall rumble in a great royal rumble, cutting each other without any wound. And I know of the pretty twins you cloth, just right there on the bosom of your holiness, waiting to be leaned over and devoured, yet there they’ll still be, ever young, preyed upon all night long, yet uneaten. And I’ll cry while I laugh, laugh while I cry, moan when I smile and smile when I moan, forehead a pool, all bodies streaming, beautiful roses scenting the air, if paradise has more to offer, I fear that paradise must be too dangerous for a diabetic good-doer.
Now love, what if I say I’ll always pray for you before I pray for myself? Will I be understood more? What if I become you, and you, me; will you then let me put my thermometer in your alcohol? I’m in love with you for real. Put your locks around my neck, I promise, you’ll not regret making me your prisoner. eBay is my name, and I’m the Second of the Order of Six Pure Fellows, the man called lord.
©Lord eBay (and his romantic commitments, 2016)