I sit cross legged
and pen my time in biding wait...
Music blares a daring dirge
of yesteryear's angst,
I succumb in numbing,
trussed in darkened doily
under the chenille, my rabbit
waits in stare... we both wait.
In a glare of celebrity screen,
(an appellate taunt) he teases
his fashion born of a new found freedom
on literary pretense...
the meta-foreplayed is never literal...
a dancing thought that delights in
rapturous laughter.
I know the cleaving-
sex, and religion scoffed,
which reigns in harmony
of a dissonant reasoning.
We wait... the mute and beady,
the blurred and bleating
who lives in a silent splendor
of rocking and charity.
Those words that hook and play...
a veiled mystery to Salome's dance.
The marooned head will meet me
where words have no meaning,
and a soul patch is a badge of honor.
Mock on... the crockery
awaits the next melt of the buttering.
Slide the slope, it's just a musing.
I'll meet you on top of a creamsicle dream...
and with that pen
ReplyDeleteI describe life within me
scribing all i see and feel
your a wonderful writer
Thank you... your words always ring true, there is beauty there.
ReplyDelete