The floppiest golden locks,
like pieces of silken sunshine,
adorn your crown.
And that wry smile.
They wait on your every word
as if it could sustain them
They swoon at your emerald eyes.
it makes a sound so mellifluous and smooth
as it trickles and ripples from your moist lips.
it always seemed the colour
that a poet’s eyes
The casual flick of the wrist,
a flash in the dark recesses of your mind,
and heaven on earth on paper is created.
Ready to be published,
Yours the face on every cover issue,
yours the name on every pair of fleeting lips,
you the flavour of this eternal, ethereal month.
Every poet must dream.