096. And So, I Write To Her

To lay one’s curiosity 

to rest,

I shall write a poem 

about my poetry,

so that one may be 

able to understand me,

and the things I 

write nonetheless.

My words are not aligned

with that of one 

woman’s heart,

save for the Earth,

as she is the beacon

for my undying art.

A canvas I may paint,

with words that have 

become rather faint, 

and yet, it is enough

to confess my love

for such a magnificent place,

no longer being

an old, empty space.

Though she remains alive,

when I shall one day not.

I will be fast asleep,

under the countless stars,

remembering how not

one day had gone by,

when she hadn’t been there.

For me, she was never, 

never too far.

And so I write to her,

in hopes that one day

she may awake, 

and read my words, 

my collection of poetry,

so that I may breathe

yet again,

until the very 

final moment,

that is, my end.