THE POETRY ITSELF

I could write any love poem on my own

in my safe place, the darkness of my room,

and offer it in any reached tone,

in songs that would hush at last hours of moon

But I’ll be never able to compose,

while not in kind of safer place, you know,

poem that pays the right tribute to the rose,

deserving of before your eyes to bow

Here’s the reason why I long tirelessly

for that place to lay my head forever,

write the poem you’ll carefully sever,

as my lifetime roll, live it breathlessly

The poem, not belonging to the shelf,

To you, darling, the poetry itself.