At This Hour.
Like a jazz trumpet
You sunset
A crowded room.
Like a flower
You choose to bloom
At this hour.
I am just a psychedelic
1960's relic.
To romance you
In a dance
Who
Will chance
Wishing on midnight moons.
In lovers trance
This poet swoons
- Who plays
London's arty cafe's
Painting breezes
As they applaud.
My words are my sword.
In Van Gogh fashion
My manic passion
Rhyming with the masters last breath.
Both famous after our death.
Our beauty
Hangs in galleries apart.
Yet
Both with brush stroke
Are the choke of a heart.
Praying a love won't depart.
And you rise
In a blue mist
Of a full moon's eyes.
At this hour.
Your naked steps
Waltz
On virgin sand
I cower,
As oceans are fanned
With
Breathless adieus.
Until you choose
Your star.
Left tapping on a darkened door.
This poet raps no more.
Now silent and poor.
Dreams -
Pacing the floor
With echoing shoes.
[...] Read more
poem by Kevin East
Added by Poetry Lover
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