We Make Poems too Long, So That No One Will Read Them

I will
use familiar phrases, buried
deep in syntactic devilry, in
alliterative metaphor. to the
untrained eye, they appear
mere incoherent lines. lines of
love, lines of sunrise, lines
like, "dew silently melts beneath
my trampling feet, gives drink to
tired dirt," or perhaps,
"there is sun resting softly, and
sweat secreted of secrecy and
silence." standard verse and visage,
wasting away, adrift in a sea of
melancholy redundancy. but
then, if you've not yet abandoned
hope for these tired and drowning
verses, you still will see another
light ashine upon the secret, subdued
sections of myself. you might, perhaps
see, "the wind starts to look like her
hair," and something might click. you
could hear, "starting new, these
waking morning yawns feel faintly
familiar." and perhaps, a twitch at
your nose. and then, "you're sweet
like kool-ade" might bring a light
to some dormant corner of you.
all misunderstood
nonsense, all incoherent rambling.
but you might know, perhaps, that
my thoughts still swell with you, they
float uncontrollably up and down your
lovely neck, they swim on the sea of
your elegant elbows, they run through
the wilderness of your naked waist.
there, where belongs my grip. those
eyes, where belong my eyes. perhaps
I have now forfeited subtlety, along
with my chance to hold you. perhaps
it is all dying, and will someday be
no more. perhaps you will read between
the lines, perhaps you will not need
to.