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He dipped two fingers in ink
and wrote a poem in my soul
he phrased it well
with my back against the wall
and legs wrapped
around his waist
he balanced me precariously
between everyday language
and symbolic jargon
the Rosetta Stone
of comprehension
like a key
thrust into my ignition
driving me to
of it all
filled me with light
the color of dreams
until I turned into
a pleasure-seeking
mass of words
instead of perishable flesh
permeated with anguish
and anger with the world

a deep and wide
encrusted in
redeemed heartaches
lay in the wake
of the glowing-red lava flow
of artistic eruption
words everywhere
metaphors everywhere
poetry in everything
even the ground I walk on
has become lyrical somehow
and the traffic rhymes
and the weather sings