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Image for the poem it belongs there

it belongs there


I call her many things, but mostly I call her Mistress.
she may not be content with that, but she tells me she is.
being selfish, I keep her bound with ardor’s chains,
in the smallness of me.

her passion, her affection, inspire me to compose,
so I write out my smallest tragedy, & call it a poem.

in the slumbering night, we steal carnal minutes, exposed
to our naked caresses & kisses like candle flames; I hold
her with all of me & she is the most of woman who was
born for this  –  this storm of sex. when we have shattered
the crackling stars of our red heat, she keeps me rooted in
her misty garden, because we know it belongs there.

after the storm, I get my coffee & she paints & scripts her
romance in the dialect of the mountain & the valley. my eyes
take in as much of her beauty as they can hold, & I wonder if
love can be more substantial than a drifting butterfly. I cannot
yet imagine my sorrow if I ever had to let her go.


a heart is the cage that we lock love into
without knowing for certain that it belongs there…


(Art: Albert-Edouard Drains)

Written by JohnFeddeler
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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