Cualacino

There she is

The Poet in my head

She rises to wake

Once again

To ponder and wonder

Is it possible to love

With too much vigor?

To have sunken too deep

Into the arms of the protagonist?

The Poet in my head

Makes every word graceful

In moving through my dark thoughts

I am of a cualacino

On the heart of his vigilance:

It is not whether the sight of me remains

But the bitter temperature I leave

Says the Poet in my head.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s