bitter men, here, rest on apathetic laurels.
with moony eyes they scour tattered bits
of paper hushing secretly along the rain
soaked sidewalks. they scheme a clever ruse
for unsuspecting hearts. ones full of life.
to the brim with love they are a gentle sort,
in need of the steadiest of hands. massive,
strong hands, calloused, still sensitive to shifts
in wind and weather. large cracked palms lurch
out from dark fog beneath us, as we drop
through cloud and air, tempered only by
the imposing hands beneath. unseen until that
last moment. that last breath, before eyes
close and lips press, newly moist, against
an others’ lips. can you recall the butterfly
race that ran circles around your innocent
innards? : we digress in times of great strife,
or embarrassment. and we pursue the trails
of tempting rabbits, wherever they may lead.
i would rather return to the brood of hopeless hobos
lifting tidbits of lost letters to the sunlit
drab sky. as if each word scrawled were coins
for the taking. as a young girl’s heart is, until
she’s gone. their knees are scuffed and oft times
bleeding from the strain of this life. ah but this
life would be lost without pain. and the world,
colorless without death. water, fire, wind – do your
worst. kill me unsuspectingly. let me confuse fear,
in the last flinch, with pure pleasure. and send
my heart laughing into the gates of Death.
victim to our auspiciously mad, mad world.
*moony – dreamy, listless, or silly