Mellifluous Murmurs

Poetry Is A Destination

The night

was beautifully

opaque.

The crisp air

smoothed itself

against my soft skin.

The lights

savored my existence,

it surrounded

my silhouette.

The music

grasped my hips.

It gave me

adrenaline,

anticipation,

life,

and sound.

I felt

as though

it was a crime

to take in life

through

poetry

and music.

It ran

through my veins,

what I lived for.

It didn't

run through my head–

I was careless,

I was set on

a continuous path

with zero plan

for a stop

or destination.

I demonstrated

my definition

of

destination

as not only a journey

or its end,

but poetry

written in emotions

as simple as

nostalgia.

I wasn't threatened,

It was a rush–

I was excited.

I was a question

with no answer;

a prize

with no material.

I am an object of wonder

Under the disposal of words

And under the tongues of monsters

That screams nothing

but

beautiful poetry.

Yes, I lived under my own tongue.