Fear To Share

I am feared to write about it

Because they talk about love

As a force to reckon with

The stars, the Sun, the moon

Like a once in a lifetime wish

Fulfilled with the Hailey's Comet

Like the only piece of history

The Big Bang happened for

Like the Paradise lost at creation

And found in the arms of a lover

A billion years, and more past.

I am scared of poems

Because I have never known

What there must be to constellations 

While we touch, or what a galaxy tastes like

With a lover's mouth

(Or the small of your back between my misshapen fingers)

And the love I have

It is anything but grand.

I am scared of poems

Because the love I have

It doesn't feel like any business

The cosmos would mingle in

It has better things to do

(I hope it does)

My love feels smaller

Than the world these words promise-

Is it big enough for you?

I am scared of poems

Because I find myself at a loss

Of words, of rhyme, of rhythm

In the oddest of times-

On the floor at the library

As you yawn but keep your eyes open

To see me browse and read

While you put your shoes on

Struggling with the bunny ears

Letting me have a laugh

Before you leave

In the middle of a Netflix show

As you feel the inexplicable urgency

To tell another unrelated story

When I call you after a crappy day

And you hate on the world

Without question, with

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me

As you sing your favourite songs

(Out of tune, and with the wrong lyrics)

When you think I am asleep.

I am scared of poems

Because I think my love hides

In the parentheses, commas, spaces

Of all these works of art

And the closest I have come

To poetry that reads like home

May be on the nights you say

Your favourite ones to me

And I am listening

To your voice break, rise, and smile

So hard, that I forget all

The other poems there have been.

'O saviors! No one to save thee,

No tears for thy wound, no sympathy,

For to save lives is noble, indeed,

Yet to kill the hands that care, greed

Of a monstrous sort that plagues the life,

Of a tired body - yet, above the strife,

Rises the spirit; blow after blow,

Brick after brick, a red smile, and the flow

Goes on.

For life and death are but ordained, and

We are nothing but the instrument, a band

Of saviors who bleed to keep the vitality

In you from reaching its early finality,

Sleepless nights, faceless days,

Zombified faces, yet the focus never dazed,

But the price for this, is no hand in prayer,

But instead it's a mob of ruthless slayers

Charging on.

We might rise up in arms against the ills,

Yet you think of us as looters with bills,

Or assassins with needles, and killers with masks,

Ha! Such epithets for our 'noble' tasks,

Yet we shall turn blind to this, at the refrain