If the one I always fancied,
Who was my love poetries' muse
Like Petrarch his hidden Laura,
Turns her back on me like Lot's wife,
What must I do to see her face again?
If the sun hides from the even moon,
Leaves him hanging without a muse
To pen a beautiful song or even Two
For the ears of earth, what can I do?
All of the sonnets she inspired me to write,
And the haikus and tankas her smile give me
Hurts when I read them again without her.
This makes my metaphors too lazy to stand
While my rhymes fall off after the end lines.
My similes are no longer smiling,
My metaphors now smells as camphor.
The oxymoron is I live like a dozen morons,
I wish you can hear the hyperbole of my heart!
If my blank pages could actually talk,
They'd tell you my ink are too cold to flow,
Especially when her back is turned at me still.
No matter the misunderstanding we have,
I want her like Cupid his beloved Psyche.
If only,
If you know my pen is sick without you!
I wish you know you are my ink and muse!
My pen oozes mournful dirges and elegies
From its sickly nibs dancing from sorrow,
How would its eyes that hasn't slept in a while
Tear sweet aqua? How shall a dry eye cry?
© Stephen Omolori and Ben James
#ANSAPoetryCollaboContest
