there’s this Blank Verus rush, this fix from poetry that lingers Senryu euphoria under my breath,
yet, I’ve never envisioned my prose as a high.
it’s never quenched my Terza Rima thirst, or artificially fulfilled me from Pastoral purging.
i’ve never made love to him,
never felt his Haikus skin against mine.
my Limerick limbs never spread wide enough to let him in, though I paused for Sonnets-ink to artistically bleed onto lineless sheets of my heart.
he has never entertained me that way.
so often I exploited Romanticism as a Tanka stimulus, and heartbreak as an actress with no headliner, or sold out Epic shows to place my pen’s Shakespearean story center-stage, with an Acrostic mic, to elevate his voice.
he’s never had a Free verse allotment
that offers an alignment parallel with my Villanelle moods. his thoughts flowed from a Visual quill of ungovernable spill, without my aid because,... I never willed him.
when the Ghazal lyrics finally comes, he cuts deeply, making me feel Burlesque through his oral Concrete heritage.
his ascendants caress the strands of
muted linguistics and lure my roar,
my .....Cantos cry.
and every emotion known hemorrhaged on scented parchment, inflamed by his merciless pleas to be understood.
and I…..I just can’t help but love his Carpe diem force because ......he has never forced me poetically,
rather, his force has constantly.... saved....