I am not beauty.
I am not breath taking radiance
glimmering beneath the waking sun.
I am not sensuality.
My lips do not beg to be kissed,
my eyes do not whisper ancient
secrets,golden honey embracing
forgotten touch, fingers tracing
I am not elegance.
I am not ornate sophistication
my words do not dance across
the evening breeze in perfect
I am not wisdom.
My every thought is not seeped
in depth swimming in the pools of
unread books written before time began.
I am not intelligence.
I do not know the answers to the
unasked questions, I cannot speak
in a thousand tongues, or caress
the broken ego’s of the literate.
I am a poet.
I am neither beauty nor sensuality.
I am the gold dust sprinkled
across the oceans ebbing tide, I am
the shadow whispering across the curve
of my hip as moon light teases my naked form.
I am the unspoken elegance
known by a few and wanted by the masses.
I am sophistication suffocating
momentarily for my sins.
I am the ancient calling of an
old soul, wise enough to learn,
naive enough to discover.
I am but a dragonfly dancing
skipping across summer breezes,
borne into majestic waters I
am the translucent wings…
I am but a poet, I create all that I am not.
Karen Hayward ©2016