The Word

I have spent long tossed and turned
nights, questing through unorthodox
thought process, looking for that
original word.

A word, profound
a word that will conjure an
apocalyptic event
a word of black rose death
a word of decaying pestilence
a word of blinding justice
a word of unrealistic love
realistically depicted in a way
that the soft heart stone skin
romantic can finally smell
the feminine stench
and not cry

This word is the last surviving
myth, yet to be unproven
possibly lying at the bottom
of Loch Ness, waiting for
a poet's kiss

So I pucker up these
chapped lips and brace
for literature bliss
but I kiss not this word
it's just my stained pillow

Back to tossing
and turning
back to talking in zees
I have not yet
lived the dream