Oh Gentle Memory, Flood Our Souls

Here’s a thimble, love; place it upon a soul, and knit a vista.

I’m ever a fable through golden eyes: ever alive—horseback

an allegory. Zephyrs build cathedrals; and flowers-girls

sprout wings; where Cupid arrows a thundercloud. I feel you—

such the music: every tone: every syllable; and angels sing,

a voice of chi, tiptoeing towards a Ghost. Crochet a fairytale;

where songbirds tap and dance, and vultures cater to infants.

In truth, a mandolin cries your name. I’m ever affected, filled

with ankhs and stress; for ours is mortal a hampered lust; and

ours is grey a plastic mirror. But ever we soar, a glass of wine,

the color of puce; and ever we love, eyes fawning for visions.

So fly, my love; live and remember—a harp flooding into our

memories; for every vibration a kingdom; and triple beats a

cosmic thought. Yes a night streams into morning, where

images usher Spirit, and electricity forges a fortress. Thus a

love a private strain; and thus a life a wealth of pain.