Writers, Words, and Realism

What is more precious to a writer than words?
And to think that you would bless me with yours.
This is no poem, this is not prose,
what it is nobody knows.
A rhyme here of there, to make itself known
but never consistent enough to get bored.
I wait for your writings and read as if drugged
the words you share and the thoughts you spread:
war and sex and revolution.
Common themes, really, in the turn of a man
for what else remains of the past and the lives
of those who thrived and those who then lost
themselves to the pages of history books but
war and sex and revolution?
Intrigue plays her fair part, but she darts and dances
behind silken skirts, formless and faceless
enticing the uproarious to taste
of her sweet lips painted red secretly with blood,
cheeks flushed and out of breath and glistening
leaves all the wild rebels imagining
but all she does is move corpses at night
she never makes love, only fancies its taking.
She is the musician, the conductor the all of
war and sex and revolution.