Sealing a formal letter with great expectations¹ sending it to unknown address,
yet the wind knows better making a beeline in air currents.
A content of reciprocal plea to ambiguous affection- he once asked me to re-rhyme my heartbeats
to sing a ballad for his heart; making a railroad of them for him to step on to reach me,
he thought of himself a poet -a narcissistic merest poet in my dictionary- that I would
fall for endearing imagery which clandestinely fogs my persona, and my oh my dear Lord,
how can I let him know the lyrics and roads to the rhythm but not the echo
of my humming heart, politely? -
“Dear Sir,
- My heart falls under ephemeral¹* etymology, and may get tired of singing solely a song
this there’s a probability you put it in your archive of oblivion as you miss out,
and the railroad you speak of may be rusted when your cold rain strikes my veins.
You might even say, that ’may’ is a modal verb indicating that something could happen in future,
but you have already brought my future from its elusive nap to wake it up in my youthful days,
while I was daydreaming of your arrival, that maybe just maybe you’ll come:
when my whispers whither in tenebrous nights of the candlelit tears echoing your nameless name.
When your words arrest my lips, occupying them; painting them in rouge of passion... (but I should’ve known the meaning of two m’s, ‘maybe’ and ‘mirage’).
Or when poetry strikes at its rhyming hours, for I’ve always been a fan of unlike yet twin phonetics.
Or after the dash of my nature haiku, but never when poetry sips nowadays politics; drinking words from stock market of buying and selling others’ fabricated phrases.
As you approach me in your diplomatic impromptu speech,
for you know that my heart is a parliament of your honest diplomacy.
That you know better than interrupting the transition of my quatrains,
for I might fall in the void space between; ending up with broken syllabic bones,
and then I have to ask you to begin with your stressed syllable,
as mild mine follow yours – a trochee then?! But no Sir... you know the meter is the iambics, only in that metrical unit I allow myself to breathe syllables and sentiments.²*
To come wholeheartedly, seeing me stitch in time³* my raw prose, with needle pulling thought sentimental threads here and veinal threads there; craving beauties of poetry between my run on sentences.
but I think I’m au fait with that sentence (I think I made you up inside my head.)²
And yet you did; you came unknowingly, not personally- fortunately, but in a more graceful way as in the many reasons for me to write a prose... within my first prose."
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¹ a Charles Dickens' novel.
¹* Ephemeral... by Ladylilith.
²* L15, Two dogs...by everhopeful.
³* Stitch in time... by songofmeadow.
² L3, “Mad Girl's Love Song” by Sylvia Plath.
