Give me a word and you’ll have a picture,
woven round it in a clumsy mess.
Perhaps it won’t qualify your stringent censure,
but I’ll call it my baby,
and see it grow,
in misty dreams,
atop abodes of snow and fleeting down frozen streams.
But you won’t understand,
why I so passionately love the scenes,
that I churn out of mere words and phrases.
embracing my wild imagination.
And it enthralls me more than your physical touch.
In leaps and bounds I can sense the passion,
running in my thin veins.
And your breath in my ears falls flat due to its very vulgarity,
the only necessity of having your heartbeats at my whim and fancy,
makes me tremble.
And so you would never understand,
why I cry when the character in the novel does,
and how he even makes me sigh,
while you just wonder,
why you fell for a woman of words.