Post by Roadpan on Mar 26, 2003 14:31:32 GMT -5
She whispers, like a gale,
into my life, and her sunshine
eyes are wrapped in rain:
bijoux that fit her alone
caress me in their demur.
She imagines me saying
I am the happiest man alive,
when I delay correspondence;
I must insist that I am
a poor mirror in these eyes.
Lest she bandies the notion,
in the coda of my frown,
that I gaze and find her less,
she should gather these words:
I am left in the winter of my mind
when I am unable to find her eyes,
and my glower is not cheerless
but resolute, for I aim to
save these images for the nights
when the fairy tale she is
pauses to administer the dreams
enlivened with the spirit of these
rays she claims so unlikely to
fill a single room with desire,
though they melt my entire sky.
Roadpan © 2003
Cause--sometimes--there can never be too much mush.
into my life, and her sunshine
eyes are wrapped in rain:
bijoux that fit her alone
caress me in their demur.
She imagines me saying
I am the happiest man alive,
when I delay correspondence;
I must insist that I am
a poor mirror in these eyes.
Lest she bandies the notion,
in the coda of my frown,
that I gaze and find her less,
she should gather these words:
I am left in the winter of my mind
when I am unable to find her eyes,
and my glower is not cheerless
but resolute, for I aim to
save these images for the nights
when the fairy tale she is
pauses to administer the dreams
enlivened with the spirit of these
rays she claims so unlikely to
fill a single room with desire,
though they melt my entire sky.
Roadpan © 2003
Cause--sometimes--there can never be too much mush.
