Dearest
(Birds of Paradise):
Was
it therapy, where words swarmed, a tender attraction?
I
feel you without words, longing a morning fight. We
struggle
this way, ever a lantern, to flicker through midnight.
I’m
an armoire, merely hanging, looking for clothing. Its
godly
to hear you, to nibble ambrosia, wreaking havoc.
There’s
a pack of poodles, barking miracles, and one
trembles.
Is he mystic, even angelic, or a human lost? I
ask
in jest, set to answer, and how? It’s a secret, ever to be
lived,
where to be is gray. We welcome
tears, to witness
growth,
to rush for thunder. I spent it bent, to tickle for
sober,
running from weary eyes. Was it therapy, where
words
swarmed, a tender attraction? I’m ever naïve, to vet
a
feeling, silent for a spell. I wrestle, to argue illusions, a
world
spawning. We grow this way, a psaltery of mystics,
even
an orchestra. We feel for souls, signs and symbols,
sitting
at a table; and there you sip, an exotic flower, a soul
of
treasures. I laugh, an unspoken thought—to linger
chided.
It’s more a trance, even a sanctum, to buffer scars.
