she rests under the moonlight night

evaded of old lovers, poems, and fears.

sweat drives down the condensated window

while her dollar sign silhouette

rests

somber on silk sheets.

you don’t know love until

you’ve become an artist, a Michelangelo

a carving, a crafting, a willing life into stone.

you don’t know love until

you bare an idea though the lens of your heart—

art—the creative expression of human

skill and imagination—

my water, my dirt,

making up all of you & the earth

as you know it. turning,

churning

dirt to mud. fingers flexed mad

with the thought of it all—

& your mind, suddenly an ambitious dart..

ya see it’s all about precision,

& these letters etch the silhouette

of an unborn dream

So what if

she is you—

over silk sheets

as she rests

into a sleep of no return. where ships

ebb and flow

away from a land of familiarity. where

souls touch the sky

& the water is your only lullaby.

where lightning strikes

precise, again

& your body lies

wrecked

& your bones

become holes..

what did you create?