twisting beams of language, syntax, and blood
into iron crafted metaphor.
over the precision of delicate syncopation.
Fueled by passion,
thrusting the seeds of meaning and diction from cradled warmth
where he holds life outside of himself.
Or sometimes cautiously seductive,
exploring with prayerful lips
and sculpting touch
each ironic curve of stanza which
swells to the touch
in response to his worship.
Selfishly coaxing with his tongue each
letter to perfect form.
Or guiding gently,
large calloused hands
embracing the tiny fingers
of his creation
as it lies in sleep next to his heart.
This is why only real men write poetry.
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