A LAYMAN OF GODDESSES

I didn't know a goddess
had breath, much less
that it was warm and sweet.
I new nothing about a goddess.

I didn't know a goddess
had a scent, much less
that it was light and fragrant.
I new nothing about a goddess.

I didn't know a goddess
had words, much less
that they were wise and learned.
I new nothing about a goddess.

And that she smiled and felt like me.
And even walked, sneaking around me
through the curves of my desires, those strong at me,
of each kiss that dreamed, teaching me to be,
in glasses for dreamed drinks, a guy pretending to be
an expert in goddesses not a fool as I seemed to be.

And she was so beautiful, so unreal
and illusory that I was bewitched, she was real,
and I believing that a goddess is also a fairy. Still real.

Deep down, as a layman of goddess,
I didn't know she was a goddess.
An earth-goddess. Real goddess.

And then, the saddest part about the real goddess,
I discovered I was a layman of goddesses.

I didn't know how to say it, or if I could, if it was my duty,
speak of my love, so small I was, to taste her, fruity,
that I was before her muse-like, a woman of that beauty.

Perhaps that's why I lost her,
without even having had her
so I could then lose her.

I cry for what I never had. I did not have her.
A charming demon. Gorgeous and I didn’t have her.
I was a layman of goddesses. I didn’t have her.
She departed away moving as goddesses. I didn’t have her.