Love, no.
Your want is a galing devotion
and I am neither your leaf to sweep away
nor seed to sail or sojourn;
I am not to be sown or cornered
by your peddling covenants,

I am the bird on the branch
screaming at clouds.
I am your passage, an ardency of seconds
drinking from the bare of you.

So I abscond
with the ambitions of this rooted tree
fruited by your toothsome whims.
This, love, should be prized,
not plucked by lonesome tongues
or drowned by rot of time.

10/29/2019

Posted on 10/29/2019
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