A poet of the word
Where my pen meets and cuddles, my withering intuitions
You are my subject of interrogation
Your voice is the howl
Of the slumbering ego
Faintly recollecting, the decay of time
As I compose, it decomposes my
Composition out of sheer joy
I maintain a faint subjectivity
Willingness to write
Is a epiphany and a momentous
Fragility of my ego which is so, vulnerable and faltering
It is the world altering
Subjectivity of yours that I desire
My pen is your construction
And you are my poet.