“To be a poet is a condition, not a profession.” ~Robert Frost
Reason of Rhyme
I bleed ink
From the tips of my black tinted fingers.
In the red of my blood
Hiding deeper still
In the multi-color blend of my soul.
My last thought before sleep
Is a phrase
The last thing I feel
The warmth of a blanket
The softness of a favorite pillow
My lover’s heartbeat against my cheek
Providing a beat
For my symphony,
While thoughts hold so tenderly to ideas
And moon and single street light
Illuminate the darkness where I lie.
I write because I have to.
copyright 2009- M. Aviles