Hopeless Romantic

I am a romantic at heart,
hopelessly so, 
or so I think at times.
It burns within like an ache
until at last it trickles through my veins 
and out my fingers
bleeding as words across a page 
then leaves me drained.

It consumes me 
but it has rebuilt me.
I am unable to think of anything else
yet it is impossible 
to imagine life without it. 
It is the fire that drives me,
the ink that fills my words,
the wind that billows my sails
as I blindly wander lost at sea. 

— Lost — 
to a heart my fingers cannot reach
but touches me with every breath I breathe;
burned to molten and remoulded
in the forge of a blacksmith
equipped with the tools 
to make heaven
out of a little square of earth
once in a while,
then pack it in a memory so small 
that it will fit perfectly within my heart
and stay there — only long enough
to see the earth fade into dust
as the last great mountain crumbles. 

But I digress

Romantic at heart —
yes, it finds me everywhere;
anywhere.
It weaves its way into my words
even when I don’t intend it,
and then leaves me wondering
if maybe hopeless
isn’t quite the right word
afterall.


october 2005






Awarded by New Horizons






Awarded by Poetic Constellations





Awarded by New Horizons