Tuesday, April 14, 2009


No longer will she seek the garden's guarded gates
where warring cuadrasabre quaratines, awaits.
Chopin sloughs the inconnu's desiccated scales,
emerges moist, purified. Pallid skin no longer pales.

Revealed, irridescent eyes readily recognize
shuffling, shifting, shameless shadowy signs.
Twice the twirling tinctured tongue, tales to tell
should telephonic turgid turbulence not tune its trill.

She sails the seas with whichever, whatever breeze
South, North, West, East, Any between, as she please.

She writes what, which words whose inner voice heard;
Draws with skill what she will, vistas surreal, absurd.

She sings such songs for sweet things her soul longs.
She chimes them loudly, yet harassing none,

For in their (fall)acious forest forages not she.
Forget they not that they also should let her Be.

No comments:

Post a Comment