Poems Don't Have to Rhyme

Dream Sculptor

My lover came to me

With marble dust in his hair

Like tree branches covered in snow

And although I'd say moreso

That my features are kneaded in dough

Not carved in stone,

My lover loves me like the river

constant in its flow.

He is a poor man

His ribs do show

Through his sackcloth clothes

The patrons don't pay the ones who know,

But he hews away at stone out of love for the art.

I meet him o'er hills, streams, and byways,

And often does he say

Only I can understand him,

The heat in his blood,

The passion that floods

His senses when the marble fever seizes him

By his heart,

For only I have tried to touch his soul

And though all lovers fail in this endeavor,

I shall always have his favor.

These words I treasure.

On the painted hills of Tuscany,

We make our way instead

Of the gaudy city below

It is here we make our bed,

And watch the sun rise again.

He tells me the world is wonderful,

And begs me live well while he is absentee.

I watch him go

With the sun upon his head,

The amber fire in his eyes

In halo's rays that wreath his head,

Until the last lights linger

On nothing but burnt earth,

And I am alone again.