Poseidon
Do you ever allow your poetry to fall gently into the categories of what would be?
Your own librarian.
Sequestered into the silences of your mind.
Envelopment of screams.
Someone who had the pleasure of shaping your dreams? Ever just flowed until someone said, "Don't," and you knew that was an invitation, they wanted more?
Ever moaned and started an encore?
Two or three times; did your mind completely unwind?
Did you pour and pour leaving 'em wanting more?
Ever just flowed? Cried? Smiled?
Felt that your soul would be captured in this tide for awhile? Not even three moons could pull you free.
Ever gander upon those types of possibilities?
Gone from question to question and landed on declaration? Periods turned exclamation. Were you set free?
Defined the limitations of definitely?
Did you jiggle the lock and key?
Try and figure the right combination it took to be hooked?
Did your poetry flow like this?
Did you do all that there was & is?
Taken past tense and made it a finality?
Ever thought, this might be?
Actually played Q & A?
Did your eyes convey what your lips did not say?
Quell a temptress? Or stirred a hurricane?
Experienced dopamine from a lyric?
Pleaded and been granted a sequel?
As word is my witness, you shall feel this;
my heart poured out so that the oceans churn.
I call this Poseidon meets Neptune;
my mind goes riding
friends and lovers
We know no end.
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