Old innocence makes a debut—time and ages again. To
stir souls, cascading into flavors, rivers streaming against walls. The fallen
have risen, parading resurrection, eyes probing sensuality—those arcs and axes,
the pivot of majesty. Gathering
nectar. If to sing. The tales are part true.
No longer like Grease. No more The Yellow Brick Road.
Better: only a few believe in tradition.
Innocence is green pollination, striking nerve and essence; like a first
crush, a careful kiss, what it meant back in adolescence, what it became during
college years. Speak to oceans,
turquoise excellence, becoming jaded with loses: the art you give, the music
you bring, the touch of magic you erupt.
If days are filled with dreams, nights are filled with visions, to have
danced in conversation—the sheer war, lure and angst, perfection and
praise. Most will love you; more will
adore you; one will know you and the undeserving aspects.
