Poetry swirls around me, like
Chocolate stirred in a porcelain mug:
I almost manage to catch a lump —
A word — against the china wall, but
It never describes what I saw.
I flail almost blindly through the
Thickening mental night,
Searching for some way to tell —
To tell that she’s beautiful,
Inspiring nothing but awe —
To tell that I just don’t know which
Of the seventeen different species of love
I hold in my heart for her.
As usual, it’s poetry holding me up
After hours, and the beautiful
Image of her that lulls me,
At long last, to sleep.
This is the first poem in my series of untitled metaphors. I probably wrote it near the beginning of my sophomore year of college, though it might have been that summer or conceivably during my freshman year. I’ve now also posted it to my wiki. Feedback of any kind, whether critique, commendation, reply, interrogative, or suggestion (especially of what to post next), or anything else, is as always eagerly requested and greatly appreciated.