Her eyes steal words from the dimly lit room.
She doesn’t write
she just tends
and watches words bloom.
I stalk her
I spy
its the work that i do
Her world is a dream
through my telephoto lens
I am Wyatt the watcher
And we aren’t even friends.
If she met Mr Aarp?
Would she bumble my name?
She’s a Mark
I am a suit
Am I freakin insane?
This mellifluous cherub
scoops words form the air
then grows them into poems that coat cameras in tears.
Towards the end of my song and hers has just started
my life ruined
peeping Tom
and hers is..
Music Hearted