I heard your whispers,
At night time,
It had no return address,
I heard your whispers.

I heard your whispers,
At the end of my dream,
You beckoned to stay longer,
I heard your whispers.

I heard your whispers,
At the crack of dawn,
Intertwined in my separating lashes,
I heard your whispers.

I heard your whispers,
In the roots of a cauliflower,
Chimes from my dinner plate,
I heard your whispers.

I heard your whispers,
Underneath a canary’s wings,
You nestle in my mind’s feathers,
I heard your whispers.

I heard your whispers,
With a return address,
And I write to say,
I heard your whispers.

– Smyekh David-West.




Let’s elope
To the north,
In a city,
Where farms are the land,
And our names echo in barns.

In a city,
Where the nights,
Are graced by our dance,
And the music,
Is only but the beat in our hearts.

In a place,
Where I’m lost,
In your eyes,
And I wander,
The depths of your core.

Let’s elope,
To higher ground,
In the mountains,
That I might show you,
The higher realms of love.

Or to a valley,
Where I can befriend,
The rustle of leaves,
For they hold the melodies,
To your songs I sing.

In a place,
Where the sun and moon,
And the only light,
Is from fire flies.

Let’s elope,
In an envelope.
And travel the world,
In the postman’s bag,
Let’s elope.

– Smyekh David-West.

Tell me


Tell me you love me,
But in a poem,
Encompass it in the, 
First word caps and final stop.

Tell me about how,
The beat in your heart,
Faint when I’m far.

Alert me,
Of your dire need,
Of affection,
The gesture of a kiss.

Tell me,
You’ve fallen,
As drizzles,
In early spring.

Tell me you love me,
But on the cusp,
Of an ode.

– Smyekh David-West.

Reverie; the Love Trance


Songs sung white with eld,
I sunder your voice,
And share it into my empty pockets,
My eardrums now beat in accordance.

In those verdant euphonies,
Was an alluring piquancy,
Lest I cosset bosom and loin,
As you’re vacuous in advent.

I rocked my cradle back and forth;
The coition with dissonant lovers.
It broke from the numbers,
But it wasn’t you.

We danced in my mother’s garden,
Where sowed is my quintessance.
In the obsidian rosettes you cull,
Are moieties of yours truly.

I wade in corpus,
Finished from your insides,
The genuine taste of palpable hallucinations,
In it, I long to die.

I inscribe psalms in poems,
Beauties of your periphery; the dimensions,
A hymn about your insides and outsides,
I’m entangled in perpertuum.

For in beauty are dimensions,
Poets will never fathom,
For it’s never about love,
But falling in love.

– Smyekh David-West.