To Truly Love a Creator
Earth
My Love has
a creator’s soul —
intense and badass
never bound, barely confined
by her body.
Her soul —
an infinity pool of liquid witchery
gushes from her hands
tips of her fingers
bringing life to her creations.
Her creations —
shine with intensity
often dazzling and beguiling
sometimes alarming
borderline rabid, even.
Indistinguishable
the creations and creator —
never boring, never empty
always unavoidable
always inexorably seductive.
Your madness —
inflicts on her
shame, blame, and guilt.
But I love her
for the meaning she brings to my life.
I love her —
for when I lie ensconced in unawareness,
she stirs me
to consciousness
with sweet music: the thumping of a thousand hearts.
I watch her —
her furrowed brows
mind’s dwelling of dreams:
that her hands
shape to life.
And they come to life —
the loamy spread
on her morning-fresh body
sowing green seeds of possibility
of springing life.
The saplings —
they push through the pores
of her skin splattered with mud, fear, and dreams
a kaleidoscopic reflection
of moods and personas.
And while I may not
possess her effusive abilities,
with her, I’ve shared
a hunger, an urge to create.
Have her, I must. Sustain her, I must.
©Shweta Stormborn 2020
