Love Jones For a Poet

The women of the world

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.