Your eyes hold a promise
of a thousand vignettes;
a sewn art of narratives
and sunshine metaphors.

The soft wind in your hair
is unborn poetry
carrying a hefty cloud
of sonnets and cinquains
figuratively crafted
with a wreath of sweetbay magnolia.

Your heart is brevity;
a tapestry of haikus and senryu,
decoupage of ballads
in a sea of poetic musings.

You are made of rhythmic quatrains;
an endless ocean of poetry.
And i'm an anthophile
with lungs made from flowers


forever drowning in your smile.

I find “the morning”
to be subjective- despite
what the birds may say.

tilted orb toward the Sun
northern light

stretched all the way;
dawn to dawn day to day.

You take aim
and paint.

evil can follow you into the night
appear in your dreams;

ultimately impotent, weak
and very limited in its scope

much like the ghost train (you ride)
down at the local fair.