I admit, this one is purely my own selfish indulgence in my love for the beauty of words…
In light years ahead, can love be seen,
a traveling gleam from this point of view through hundreds of — fears?
And if so, is it trial or triumph?
or simply a trip:
today’s augmented reality: a Thai-fervor with exotic graphics?
Or is it a lonesome lacking
a balloon looking
(like a vagrant Valentine)
frightened of the inescapable
landscape that looms
replacing the lazy longing for love?
or via vice versa
(My toes are numb…still…)
So artful glances shoot spitefully like a cat,
hair on ends, tail straight up,
suspicious of simpering selves
Suspicious of savory sweets
Scintillating streams of swiss chocolate
thick, melt in your mouth unmentionables
(It’s impossible to talk, anyway, with your mouth full)
a run of words
wondering at what moment it would be wise to win?
(A great loss can more than lengthen the lack of lackadaisical looks)
Hackles instantly rise
A run-on sentence
becomes a rambling Rover of rumors,
the Pied Piper of the painful poets
Forces the English language
to match that effervescent (and sometimes frenetic) language of love…eons ago
eons and languid eons ago.
Whoever may, will
A laughable test if anyone really knows it well enough,
full of philanthropy
Or for some: philandering
(or phallic fallacy?).
All would like to imagine that
no, it must be more than
It’s tough, they know
complicated, we know,
but some just don’t give up trying
even when they beg to
but in the end, (forgive the moral
but it must be made, you know.)
In the end,
I (amongst all the vice and voice)
Could only hope
that the words and wanderings were worth it, despite wary and wearing
like that balloon
(not even demarcation or demonstration)
more than decoration
maybe even for deflation
in some one’s lonesome yard.
And it is enough.
It is enough for me.