I
love it to fly, grounded in riddles, ever to surface. I love
it
in poetry, a sensuous kiss, two strokes shy. We rant to
rave,
to strut for gold, somewhere deep for ink. I cry
purple,
through a shady world, torn to behave. It’s a
sphinxly
game, touched with silence, at ninety miles per
hour.
I’m daydreaming, lost in dialogue, and fallin’ short.
It’s
perfect this way, forever green, if only a wish. I feel
her
for rain, my deepest scar, to educate a fantast. We
rant
to rave, to spin for angst, staring eye to eye; and
there’s
another, painted perfect, and two shots shy. I’m
found
a grain, even a sickle, chatting a mirage. She’s
dice
and liquor, a partial art, to speak a portrait. We
chance
for waves, to poke and prod, knee high in marsh.
I
love it in prose, a fancy turn, to usher souls. Its life to
grave,
and grave to life, bleeding a contract. We never
soared,
enlove with flight, caught at a crossroad. I
fancy
to see her, living through eyes, enchanted by
strangers;
and we never met, a sordid cave, ever in disguise.
