By: April Mae Berza

The Goddess of Books and the Singer-Songwriter

(For Dale)

I am but a goddess of books, books
welcoming you with my loveliest chapters,
the soul of eternal words and finite worlds.

You are a mortal, a singer-songwriter,
who crafts poetic kisses and embraces
to my lips, mellifluous, mellifluous.

Music embraces the two of us
and I sing paeans for you
as you immortalize me with songs.

Open up the library of my wounds
and a vast kingdom of lexicons
will show you a way to my heart.

The gates to a secret Paradise
are enchanted pages to my skin,
leaf through the pages and own me.

My divine bones and sinews
are passages to a beautiful realm,
read me up until the breaking dawn.

We both drink the sweetest wine
from an immortal cup, immortal cup,
making you a deity, an equal.

We meet in bookshelves of dreams,
the sweetest Philomels serenading.
Worship me with welcoming worlds.

DJ Told Me to Play Yiruma’s River Flows in You on YouTube

There is classical music whenever I lie down
down down to your chest, the throbbing heart of mine
imprisoned in this ethereal song I call home

home home listening so slowly, gently
to the rhythms of your heart, I was held captive
captive captive of this sweetest melody,

the moments inside these heartstrings
as I worship worship worship your every breath
every second every minute every hour

of our many lifetimes, I will always choose to sing
paeans for you alone, wrap my virgin verses
all around you you you, make love love love

with your intimate thoughts, dance with your depth,
and embrace your character as you would to mine.
Chaos harmony chaos harmony chaos harmony

in this erratic orchestra of these sweetest rhapsodies.
We become one one one. The rain speaks volumes
of bliss. The pelting madness just melts me away.

Exile

Scrabble is not a lonely goddess
But a slave of our first meeting.
We argued time and again but
Could not spell freedom without
Debating about the NPAs, I felt
Guilty when you embrace solitude
With the limbs of the sea as the
Mountains sleep with a sweet
Sirocco whispering inaudible
Lexicons in your ears, if only I
Could bail you from the heart
Of the province where you leaf
The pages of the calendar as if
It’s a textbook banned by history.