'Soul-Solitaire'

He
buried her syllables
in his spinal cord...

and fell crumpled
from the
want to taste her life...


all to feel
the sweetness
of ache against
his lips  

knowing that
when seasons
changed
from searing scarlet
to alabaster...


He'd still feel
the spiraling numbness
striking like crystal darts
strumming against his  cheek

and when nothing could fill the emptiness,  that yesterdays had bore

He would
swallow passion
and whisper faint lullabies
targeted at scattered  stars
that he prayed, would quiet
his fears.


He appreciated her spirituality-

the faith she clung to
when the world
became an abysmal failure.

Once, he asked,
what the meaning of life was
she hesitated
then replied, immortality...

The very best of writers
have said very little
while the worst
have said too much....


and he read her poetry...

no love compared to her words.
no drink was as satisfying
as the substance of thought...

no sex as strong
as the love and hate of oneself...

because, the world is full
of poets,  but very few poems.


and like flowers
that never bloom
they are invariably forgotten...