this is the garden:colours come and go, frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing strong silent greens silently lingering, absolute lights like baths of golden snow. This is the garden:pursed lips do blow upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing (of harps celestial to the quivering string) invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap and on Death’s blade lie many a flower curled, in other lands where other songs be sung; yet stand They here enraptured,as among the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
Hey spider, dangle there on the spout until morning if you dare of the fiberglass off-white tub- I have no fear of your silken web now, you go about your business as if I am not there sitting on my throne- just hoping, when morning comes you are way far up in the corner sleeping, as it seems our schedules rarely overlap
a romance stronger than *** egos not ever known just a sweet touch of afar and birthdays and christmases keeping in touch through the long distance fog of so many years she makes cakes I taste by her descriptions only we fuss like we live together and we have never touched I told her my secrets she absorbed and I held her through some dark times in absentia just my voice she cried on my virtual shoulder I loved her so many times in my imagination we have made love so many times by words that's my muse