I Lived Inside a Poem Once.

I lived inside a poem once,
but her words were sometimes cold and dank,
and I shivered into
streams of conscious thought
flailing madly
in a river
of inky midnight
blackhole stars.

I slipped inside a poem once
seamlessly, as if by magic's fatal kiss,
all my struggles came undone,
set to the undertones of the
steely beat of platinum drums,
I merged so deep into her reverie
I lost all sense of self-identity.

I bled inside a poem once,
the complex taste of crimson red
seeped into her hungry mouth,
and the metallic smell of iron-rust
lingered in every breath that rose
from her metaphor filled lungs.

I wept inside a poem once,
softly she held me with the stillness
of silent reverence,
in repose as my sorrow sunk
into the heavy weight
of her bold, italicised font,
she resisted the urge to peek
into the rawness of my heart's cracked carapace.

I slept inside a poem once,
dreaming of the hangman's noose,
I swiftly cut my inhibitions loose
Wild laughter coloured the shade of night,
when I awoke there was sunlight teasing
away the sleep from my eyes.

I lived inside a poem once,
till I memorised all the lines
written inside the reticent aria
felt within the penumbra of her sacred psalms,
and she gently reminded me
that life was about living free,
not using words to play hide and seek.