I am a scavenger of your poems

Pick up every word

Dance on a mound of prose

Holding the roar of a rose

I pulled over the edge of the poem

sip a cup of the teapot

smell the aroma of petrichor around you

You're still drowning, buried by petrified homesickness

I am a scavenger of your poems

Pick up every word

Dance on a mound of prose

Gathering longing, which is not for me.