the lost man chronicles
book two: the art of love
this poem inside of me
I know you are this poem of epic proportions, written over endless sleepless nights, fantastic flights into the darkest reaches of every poet's imagination. I know you are this poem which upon reading begins to bleed every word dripping down the page, the liquid sage of its wisdom falling into my lap and sticking to me like sap until its seeps into my soul. I know you are this poem that cries but does not shed tears for fear of having the world discover it, a blackened gem, a lonely stone, which I have mined alone in the sultry caverns of my salty lust. I know you are this poem that serves as the roadmap trust of my dreams, shone upon by crescent moons in daylight cream and balls of concentric fire at night and every carved out time in space where I might divine clues to my destination in the reflection of lunar-stellar light upon the blessed beholding of you. I know you are this poem that begs daily verses, stanzas implored within flight, lines several miles long written on the run—all to be done blindly, for there is never an end in sight. I know you are this poem and yet I may not be sure who you are, even if every pore, every tick, every desire to lick and squeeze and ultimately please with a mountain of a moan being the telling-tone—tells me that I do. I know you are this poem that has no name, but yet is to blame for all that dwells deep and flies awry into the blur of the landscape, and with the flutter of an eye. I know you are this poem that carries the earth in the bosom of her nature, just as sure as fate ensures the miracle of birth, and death gleans the end of—everything. I know you are this poem that crushes me. I know you are this poem that presses to have all truths told, to ensconce itself in the center— in the sides— at the lip of all peripheral tangents—at the edge of all that lies inside—you are this poem—inside of me.
the art of living the art of love