Where's that who read me poetry as I

Where's that who read me poetry as I
made presumed art on a machine with all
pure intent as the hours whisked by in the
night forbidden as we learned from each
other where all thought is born.

Where's that who stood on the stool holding
hammer and nail on the hallowed walls of
presumed art with bare feet a glistened near
my eyes and tongue on fire with lust held
suspended as the morning sun crept.

Where's that who thought kneeling before me
was a prelude to kisses and moist on my bed
and scented as violets in spring it was as we
talked through her window in scant hours of
twilight then held in a nest of sweat.

Where's that who was held as a hostage to
love and promises always defended forward
as we both argued and held together for years
on end until the end finally came but I didn't
get the memo so I mentally creep out.

Where's that who got me to thinking about
matter of writing and where the poetry reigns
as we swoop down upon what is most in all
precious as music is form most wanted to
giving flavors of Truth sans legal corruption.

Where's that who gave me courage to bear the
empty of night's lonely and contempt for all
matters engulfed in greed and religion devoted
to nothing when presumed art is foremost at
the back of my days in question.

Where's that who once buried a sorrow in my
lap only to rescind it in fortune and commit
nothing of worth toward my only true wants
as the house was vacated and the axle was
broken and the moments' love died.

Where's that who once flirted because wisdom
I offered was proven immense of immediate
concise and as smoke came forward in drizzled
rain cornered on streets of all purpose was left
with a want and regret for a kiss.