Poezja

In heated words,
disturbed, a passion
runs rampant.
It tires and sweats
a song, for mood
cues a decision.
Conspires against my better judgment.
 
My coffee.
On cream sheets,
I’d drink your mornings.
Imploring, unfounded.
A willingness,
my muse.
On cream paper,
I'd draw your inky fingerprints.
For, the view
of two enticing move.
 
But with a hint of closure,
Talent is no substitute.