May swoon
At the sight of ripped chests,
Arms,
And a statuesque frame
Molded after a porcelain David.
Others interests are sparked
(Along with that sparkle in the eye)
At the sight of a man
Nice at ball-handling or
Possessing the stamina of a
Tri-athlete of sorts;
A superman donned to
dodge bullets and
Leap tall buildings.
But I.
Stagger and stumble over curbsides
Over He
That can take vowels, nouns, and stanzas
And compose them into pure fire.
Spit a flame into my ear
Instead of a pick-up line.
My eyes will not follow the direction
Of a 5K runner or a tall, unblemished figure…
Nothing turns my head like He who can
Run circles around me with
The prose that He scribes.
My heart palpitates for the master of the 16,
The king of the manuscript,
And the ambassador of words and thoughts.
Not the muscular, wife-beater-wearing novice
Who will sport the shades, grip the mic,
Ransack the words,
But will say absolutely nothing.
No, not him…
But He.
Who wears justice as a belt
And truth as a cloak.
I will stand and applaud for him,
nod along to his beat,
study his verses and
commit them to memory,
apply the Truth I feel
to my every footstep.
