Serenade (Ode to Words)

Each time I sit before the task

Of writing something apropos,

Of myself I rightly ask

What of passion do I know?

For clever words in cunning rhyme

Are hardly any substitute;

Feelings transcend space and time,

One's passion must be absolute.

The truest words are made of silk,

Greeting with their sweet caress,

Flow like creamy buttermilk,

And purest love they doth profess.

Fingers dancing o'er the keys,

Conjuring the finest things;

Often brings me to my knees --

Transfixed by what my passion sings.

Poet's goal, if one is found:

To weave a lovely tapestry,

Touch you in ways most profound,

With hungry sensuality.

Read these words, my dearest one,

Let them permeate the soul,

Know your joy is like the sun,

Keeps me warm, and makes me whole.

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- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.