I can faintly remember that day;
We had been driving for hours.
Finally, I could hear it:
Loud supersonic booms and echoes.

I got out, and I could feel it.
The suffocating air,
The scorching, burning heat,
And the radiating, bright light.

Overhead I could hear the loud birds,
Singing shrill, sharp shots of glee,
Of a bright, midsummer's day.
Slewed, silver starlight wait in their eyes.

It was a calm, crystal clear day.
The canvas, unblemished.
The horizon was clear,
Showing off rays of the first light.

The gold, soft and lumpy heated ground,
Littered with trinkets, waiting,
For the taking of loved hands.
Drinking the horizon of pale light.

We had climbed over soft, yellow hills,
To reach our location.
The blooming, frigid palms,
Creating a smooth, gentle breeze.

Realization of the burnt dawn,
And suddenly…

I can remember.

Springtime field flutters.
Blood splattering the paper.
The rush of the reeds.

Feeling my fettered heartstrings,
Velvet lips can't nourish all their gentle fibers.

Instead the touch fragrance hair tufts transcribers,
The wisps knitting her lids flitting my wings,
Fierce ride, curved my floored felt scar into playthings.

A wound no-feet long, untraceable inscribers,
Who cut miles deep, hellish hateful imbibers.

Laugh, you dressing gashed daylight under the rings,
Of your fingertips, for we were one in the same.

Neither caress nor touch nor glance,
Overlapped either pining silhouette's frame.

But now it's not the same.

Now caress and touch and glance,
Are all within our flame.

The old immor(t)al wound
                                  He tak
                                  es a
                                  gil
                                  den
                                  ro
                                  d
                             mouthful
                       Unaware of ichor
                     Power. Deceit. Malice.
                 co      urs    es  thro    ug
                 h                  h  is         v
                  e                  i             n
                                                    s

                 and  bleeds  onto  his w
                                                (abh)or
                                                     (go)ld

Devoted to your second hand
Your  electrifying
Admonishment   your   embrace   solidifying
a    swirling    technicolor    land
                                                                            (move)
Meant along your path engroove,
bring
          error receiver much to be desired

Since feeling is first, and syntax is lies,
To enscribe you, my darling little jay,
I would have to ask, "Is there any way?"
Not of mimsy guise and anything-dyes,

But of nоnce-nonsense and everything-sighs,
Keep these thoughts pastiche on a wayward bay,
And perhaps leave them, removed on display,
Entirely altogether?

You are this fool's  ". . ."
". . ." as  '. . .' but  ". . ."
Lea ve me ". . ." on, a . . .

A skip!         for,
". . .   &      . . ."    "can"t; f o r get
(love ". . .") and you,
". . ."