Plain and simple
words are all I have.
Ordinary, pedestrian,
seldom inspired
or memorable,
but with your
permission,
say them
I will.
I know
you crave
scintillating poetry,
an artful turn of phrase,
a deft numbing salve
for winter's long malaise,
to abandon yourself
to a mellifluous rill,
sooth your ravaged heart,
quell pangs quivering still
where flesh and soul depart,
to touch and be touched
if only just briefly,
engage in a consensual act,
surrender, dissolve
what separates, but chiefly
give wide berth to critical fact
as a play of synapsed electricity
jumps
to bridge
the gap.
My snare
has sprung.
Disbelief was hung.
You now are mine to keep.
Drink up, my friend. Drink deep.
My words to you are sleep.
... And in the stillness
of my words find an offering
of essence, rest, and peace.
Yet for those suffering
more severe affliction,
demanding pulsed doses
of prose, verse, or fiction, find
mind-candy laced rhythms
to fuel your addiction,
by-passing all sensors,
critics, or censure,
ink-jected directly
by neuro
trance
mission.