I urged the pen to surge, spat hope to these pages, lacking the length to cope, forced my being to exist within your thoughts, thoughts guiding me to this corner of memories, where bliss is a kiss served without a miss. I dared the day to alter its course of motions, to less provoke my cold feet.
I wanted to write you a poem about love, but I began kneeling down, looked above with a shady look to book a place on God’s shelves of prayers about your smile.
I wanted to walk with a poem. Maybe giving it to you in hand would give more impact. I’d have written what I fumbled to say.
I saw words unfolding hidden worlds containing such immaculate peace… Maybe I will write that poem in your palm, so it will never be erased.
When I paged through the chapters of life, I wanted to write a poem on a stone about your heart, how it mothers ways, guards evil upon spoken trails, how twisted intentions twist with a great fit to untwist themselves, when you stare without blinking.
I still wanted to write a poem beneath your feet, so you’d feel every word in motion spiking through your bones with sweeter chills, to help you feel the warmth of verses between your toes.
I wanted to write a stanza on your flesh, so you’d hold tight to those words you treasure, to be content without measure, and know how your body is a temple encrypted with a piece written with ease.
How I’ve longed to write a poem between your fingertips, so when we hold hands they may click, with a feeling deep beyond the moon’s eclipse, thus emotions will run wild to fulfil those silent beats.
My hands itch to write you a poem on roses. Picking them will be a journey, for even when they prick, blood will spill for our never-ending path of ordained beginnings.
Then maybe I’d write you a poem about the stars, how they shine when you pass, whispering about you as they shoot, giving you wishes, leaving the moon drunk with fantasies.
Somehow I wanted to write you a letter with a poem inside, be classic with an envelope,write bold with italics, make certain that it is clear to the postman.
Yet along the way I lost every word about you, because you recited this poem for me.
Courtesy of a friend;
Napo Robert Mokoena.