Sources

I can no longer look at your beautiful words

for fear they will search me out,

spilling effortlessly, still wet,

and warmed by your tongue

damp word bees, wings fanning out

to lay their glorious painted eggs

burrowing down to grow within my psyche,

And what then?

I’ll waste and hollow, a shell,

my words mated with your own

emasculated, dry, deserted,

a starved poet parched.

© Graham Sherwood 08/2018