Poetic Purpose

I tire of poetic reflection,
of extrapolations on situations
poised in varied word play
about days and nights,
seasons,
reasons for fights
or flights from relationships,
luscious lips and inviting hips
twisting to and fro in ecstasy,
sunsets slowly melting into oblivion,
rain pelting down onto sleazy streets
where wayward lamplight
is the only illumination

To what purpose are these phrases
formed and foisted upon others?
do we not hear the same music,
are the notes floating not the same
to each of us,
is not the sunlight bright,
at times blinding,
dim at others
obscured in mist,
and do two hearts not beat the same?
our lungs breathe in and out
in common refrain

Of what import is it to me
that I know how it is you see
and what you feel,
memories you have of long ago
or just last night?
What is it that you want,
that you think I ought to know?