Dedicated to all men and women, who strive to become as perfect as they can be
In a callous, uncaring world, short of real courage.
A poet starts with three pennies
In his mental pockets, which become a title
That could capture the essence
Of the modern day anti-hero – the lover.
A metaphor, as sharp as a thread cutting through soap
Or a sniper on a vantage point 100 meters away,
Makes a statement – the opening. Then you follow
With some lines on love; the inescapable plot,
The climax when stars cross and the ending, in an angina.
Every love poem seems to be a tragedy these days.
– Aren’t we poets all Shakespeare wannabes?
Still, Neruda leaks through
As a motif that obsesses on the female form.
Strangely, you need to look through the eye of a needle
To find a metaphor for breasts.
Fruits are in every poet’s manual. Pillows are plain crude.
What if I tell you, her breasts were so sensual, every god known to man,
Transformed to an infant, to be pacified by her breasts.
What if I tell you she could make you blush
In hundreds of ways, and sometimes all at once,
Without any of your senses knowing.
Still, would that make her the perfect Juliet?
And still how could they not be together.
Goddess with an unholy honesty,
Daring like Lady Godiva and still the prince could only
Make eye-contact with her, until the villain
Choked her to death. And sometimes
We poets are beasts fracturing love
With the head of a sledgehammer.
Modern love it seems can only spell doom.
But what if I tell you, a love story is
All about the ever-after, the fairytale.
The jellybean moments, colorful and sweet.
The perfect love poem, in honesty,
Is never too far from any poet.
And that poem can only be,
As purple as a field of lavenders,
Primal than kama sutra,
Honest as glass,
Shorter than a sonnet,
Simple yet compound as a kiss,
Softer than Cashmere fleece,
Brighter than Aurora in blush,
Swifter than an epiphany,
And as recurrent
As the crack of dawn.