A rose alone.

If poetry is words alive in motion, what do I call these still life words,
birthed by the fondled ideas inside my mind?
They lack the skill to place emphasis,
on energy the way that you can.
You, who chokes microphone stands
with more than just your ink stained hands.
You own that stage underneath your feet.
You adorn it with your colorful themes, and confident voice,
Concise prose, meter and verse.
Can I do more than observe,
How your metaphors shoot adrenaline from word to line and line to word?
You, rugged poet, are the spark of this desire,
To wait for your bullet words to enter my head,
As I smile on the line of fire.
These are my hands, rugged poet take them and burn them.
I offer you my ears to deafen and eyes to blind.
I give you my mouth- seal it!
They are worth nothing,
If I cannot touch hearts like you, hear, see or speak like you.
This ode is my body. This want is my life.
These words - the forgotten land mines upon which I walk.
You rugged poet are the last proud rose in a field of bodies burning.
Child of Apollo, you are the object of my yearning.