Midnight Cars

If poetry is
a promise, the
woman who
keeps me honest
is the golden ring.

If wordsmiths
are kings
(and thereby
vice versa),
I’ve made turning new leaves
into linguistic gymnastics,
and cha-ching,
profit.

If line breaks
are bling,
we are richer,
I’m positive, and no
bankruptcy can stop
what we’re
about to bring,

financing the
broken-hearted at
their most beautiful brinks.

If verse is
a missing link in
stories of you
versus the nights that think
out loud on your behalf,
it’s okay to laugh
at shadows,
your heroes will
come home tomorrow.

But if I may
distract you from
your stars,
lighting up your
galaxies,
where ever they are,
and the sound of
midnight cars
barrelling down
your conscience;

if poetry is a promise,
then you are my bard,
gatekeeper of
narratives that capture
all my oxygen.

Air’s eponymous breath,
jewel in the jest of
its loving suffocation.

Lest I forget to keep inspiring you, know all your words are blessed.

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