Let's workshop this poem about the narrator's muse who, remaining distant and speaking love only in whispers, leaves him consumed with a sense of longing he expresses in furies of words.
Here is a better version. It not only is in rhyme (which all poetry must have), but it makes clear that the love is diverse.
Third Ear
My muse whispers gay love each day
through my third ear's Heaven’s Gate
in tones only I—nonwhite—can play
and words that leave me to my fate.//
Trans nonwhite, she stokes my fire bright,
her heart's desire HR-approved in flame.
Ti to my Do, we dance (consensually) in light,
co-leaders in life's intersectionality game.//
But as I roll in wheelchair-accessible vibes,
I'm but a shadow, an antiracist thought.
My muse's inclusive words nowhere to abide,
our nonableist love a silent secret wrought.//
Still I write, with fevered but triggerless ink,
my heart ablaze with her sweet voice.
My words honor her safe-space think,
a DEI love that makes my soul rejoice.
Here is a better version. It not only is in rhyme (which all poetry must have), but it makes clear that the love is diverse.
Third Ear
My muse whispers gay love each day
through my third ear's Heaven’s Gate
in tones only I—nonwhite—can play
and words that leave me to my fate.//
Trans nonwhite, she stokes my fire bright,
her heart's desire HR-approved in flame.
Ti to my Do, we dance (consensually) in light,
co-leaders in life's intersectionality game.//
But as I roll in wheelchair-accessible vibes,
I'm but a shadow, an antiracist thought.
My muse's inclusive words nowhere to abide,
our nonableist love a silent secret wrought.//
Still I write, with fevered but triggerless ink,
my heart ablaze with her sweet voice.
My words honor her safe-space think,
a DEI love that makes my soul rejoice.