soft grumbles

It should not be the words I weave
or the steady rhythm
trapped inside embellishments
of traipsed fecundity
that should melt your heart.

Neither should it be the images,
fresh or trite as they may seem,
that conjure the image of Dorian Gray.
Rainbows do not elicit the feelings of want
begging for a tight embrace.

I hope it is neither my low voice
that causes you to stir and fret,
and make your heart palpitate wantonly
nor the extended fingers I use
to play notes that wail in the night
as I pluck my guitar
to sing out a song of love.

No, they should not be
for they are just a part of me
I am the poem,
and this is my song

rolly