I

I am a jealous poet, i confess.

I hunger after dulcet syllables and sapphire phrases.

I am a covetous hoarder of mellifluous tones,

searching for the lush velvet beads

that roll like pearls off the tongue,

with plump vowels as mellow and round as blueberries,

and consonants like rough-hewn diamonds,

their harsh, blueish light glowing through my lips,

a radioactive, hypothermic poem.

Good poetry is a silver necklace,

forged with blood and moonlit tears,

a mossy emerald mined from the depths of consciousness,

an ethereal moth, with eggshell wings

and cerulean eyes;

unreachable.