MY POET

He reads a poem, not his own though,
He seems disinclined to do that ever,
He says he is out of creaitivity ever since he was born,
But wakes me up gently with his sweet voice,
Reciting at least others’ poems for me,
Sometimes becoming my Milton or my Moore
And at times even my Shakespeare,
“To be or not to be…”
His eyes speaking more than his words could say,
Enchanting me deeply with his beautiful smile,

Smiling at him, I open my eyes
But my mind drifts to day dreaming about us,
I surrender to him each day like this,
As he opens new doors for me,
Creates new dimensions for my dreams,
Taking me from one dream to another endlessly
And he only knows how to retrieve me,

He is my poet,
My Milton, my Moore,
My Shakespeare…
Just mine and only mine
Taking me away with him each day
On a new journey in life
AsI readily fall so deeply in the mask of enigma that he provides…