Your words are beautiful
the way you paint them.
Tie descriptions around waterfall,
Walk us through frowning mirrors and smothered air,
And then auction them off to our fondest senses.
Touching us gently enough to resurrect imagination,
you have talent and you know it.
Cracking open heaven so that we may feel
what it’s like to sleep on top of clouds
or rightly discern what a teardrop taste like,
for we glide along in the melting pot of your splendor.
But your words do not live,
nor do they bring forth life.
I can hear the sirens of an acrylic woman
drowning in her own salt water…
Can you help her?
Will your words assist her in their beauty?
Your words suck the breath from our lungs with its daintiness
the Picasso of Poems,
A hanging Mona Lisa of walking glamour…
Except what I see
are lynched portraits
pretending to swing delicately
from the trees you attached them to.
A jump rope fantasy of tree houses and hopscotch.
I can smell the sizzling fragrance from miles away,
But beauty is just simply not enough for me.
I need to know that before time hugs my flesh,
before the gravediggers begin their song
Can I count on your words to CPR me into its arms?
I’ll just remember how beautiful