love and happenstance

Sometimes poems have no words, no clever rhymes
Sometimes poets forget and the poem is lost forever
Sometimes the poem is only the music of the background
lost in a closed nickelodeon, drenched in penetralia, solitude
until words skulk about like meandering children
To lay upon the crumbled page like dusty age


Some days your eyes have a minstrel's flair
As you look up from the paper
My redemption pressed against your breast
My lips wondering aloud
Sometimes poems are mysterious things
Dressed up in a cloak of scintilla
Clandestinely hiding in a mirror
Until the truth unfolds