Unskilled romancer of moods...

bruised like a plumb from

false starts--fumbling, falling

into graces...whose?

Some bright-bulbed

peanut gallery staring at you

from the rears of their minds.

Watching you cartoonishly swept

off your feet by cosmic record skips.

The cavities of your features filling

with shadows, as if touched up for

your variations on danse macabre.