We
ignore fate, spinning private journeys, to interrupt lives.
I
see her in France, to mingle a last name, touching touché.
I
feel her in Greece, headed for Africa, to yearn for roots.
We
often die, a late night voyage, to target a source; but
what
to give, a born Savannah, running with cheetahs? I
vanish
self, to drift for beauty, enlove with a churning cycle.
It’s
more for Paris, a rendezvous, a step shy of ecstasy. Was
it
us, a volcano dream, to awaken soaked in sweat; but
never
could, a rites of passage, to sky-scrape an atlas. We
ignore
fate, to fancy freedoms, tugging at shaman souls.
Was
it Hahn to love, a sage to see, to wrestle human
contact?
I ask, to picture love, stippled on sky-plates. Its
oceanic
this dream, to rest for sleepless, a woman’s range.
There’s
a Porsche, racing through a psyche, a billion
dollar
muse. What for others, maybe a trillion, a barefoot
carpet;
but never this juice, to pull a pillow, a feyic colony.
We
dwelt in Cali, a bus of strangers, tugging at shadows;
but
more a chase, to pencil abyss, to fade out henna.
