You would think
there is a spore in my brain—
a bloom of madness, delicate and divine,
threading its roots through thought and marrow,
scented with her.
I walk crooked under its weight.
Not love, no—
but something stranger,
a sacrament wrapped in fury.
I even try to anger God.
What fool would hand her
to these blistered palms,
more fit to break than bless?
What divine humour casts me as
the keeper of war
before the altar of her peace?
So I speak to Him.
Not in praise,
but in longing,
in trembling protest,
hoping that if He is everywhere,
then maybe—just maybe—
I too can be where she is,
can sip the breath that curls from her lips,
can share in the light
that glances off her cheekbones.
It is not prayer,
It is not worship,
but an aching mimicry of the stars
yearning for a single mortal kiss.
Let the rivers split themselves open in song,
let the winds forget their own direction,
let life rise wild and green
from the cracks in this trembling stanza.
For this is not poetry—
this is the fevered pulse of the universe
cloaked in metaphor,
a rhythm left unsolved
so only the soul may dance to it.
