Acacia
dreams, for eyes that purr, and passion’s fuel. Oh for
zeal,
and Siamese wit, to plunder hearts. What for message,
in
Daisy Dukes, dressed in lust? I’m more to perish, a
kayaking
heartbeat, where she reaches over. Hear the decree,
“I
want it life,” to kiss tanned breast. We laugh a ribbon, and
semi-nervous,
a topaz chill; and sapphire skin, where tension
rises,
to infuse a cottage. Jewelry jingles, plus a toe ring, to
compliment
a thumb ring. I’m hijacked, by gracile legs, ever
to
atone. Oh for dreams, and moonlit souls, to unhang a coat;
and
oft to hear, “For love is gray,” to gnaw for words. I
mustn’t
chase, to escape for pressure, and childhood trauma; for
oh
her style, an addict’s brow, and that one gesture. I’ve seen
it,
pitching marbles, both distant and friendly; and many
knew,
to break her free, a zone of powder; and we never met,
and
only slept, where tensions crept; and still the best, albeit
grim,
a Taylor cinema. We acted parts, and Hepburn knew,
feeding
me something chaste; and evermore, a yearn to fly,
and
cooking dinner. I loved an act, to reach for death, to
overlook
a sinner’s life; and Ingrid cried, enlove wit peace,
and
torn asunder. So more for Marilyn, and more for Katharine,
as
warm as Jolie.
