I know what you might be saying. "Another love poem? When did you become such a sop?" One might answer "when he got a girlfriend," but that wouldn't really account for it. I'm simply a hopeless romantic at heart, and so I write these little poems, bad as some of them are, as expressions of that silly habit.
Do with that information what you will. (Yes, I am four poems behind now. So sue me...)
"Great Fictions for a Maiden"For you I give my lion's roar
until the mountains quiver
in their foundations
and beg for mercy.
Only you can give it to them
with your milk honey touch.
For you I raze cities and continents
so that they might know what it is
to be willing to sacrifice worlds
For you I pluck the moon and the stars
from the sky
with sad little fingers
until skin burns to ashes
and the atoms split.
For you I tell great fictions,
for there is no other way
to express the inexpressible
except to indulge in fibs
and drudge up centuries of falsehoods
trapped in men's hearts.
For you there is no end to that journey,
to the day-by-day expressions
which threaten to terrify mountains
and destroy continents
and split atoms.
For you I give these little things
as proof for a theory with no answers.