It's 8:15
and I'm almost entirely sure
that this poem
is only an attempt
to put off telling you how
I really feel about you
but I'm not sure that
these shaky hands
can hold you
or that my red eyes
can bear to see yours,
bright blue.

So if I fess up to you
I need to know

If you're the air I breath, why do I feel like I'm dying?
If you're the wind beneath my wings, why am I not flying?
and do you think that we could both say "I love you"

without one of us lying?

we
heard
the
wings of
the
monarch butterfly
beating together
as
she approached
the
ash pink rose
to
taste
the
nectar of the gods
click-clack
clickety-clack

a woodpecker
hammered
onto
a
hallowed soul
to
build
her nest
made of gold

through
all
the
twists and turns
the
owl moon
born
with
a
set of wings
drift across
the
river Jordan

the
royal male lion of Africa
king of the jungle
who
rules
the pride
sits on his thrown
with
marmalade eyes

The world does not want
one more poet activist
crying out against
all injustice.

The world does not want
a moral philosopher
plunging the depths
of the lies we tell ourselves,
discarding illusions, and
barely overcoming confusion
to become a better human being.

The world does not want
another hopeless romantic
faithful lover,
god under the covers,
explorer, and discoverer
of all untraveled depths
that women possess.

This world does not want me
and I am almost okay with that.

The warmth of summer has faded,
And now the leaves begin to turn;
Drifting upon the winds of autumn,
A raven carries a message.

On wings of black,
Clutched in talons -
A bottle sent from the wreckage.
The letter within is wrapped with ribbon,
And sealed with a cork of sapphire;

Flying up and over the ridge,
The bottle is delivered from Fate's grasp -
It falls into the hands of a figure by a fire,
A traveler who observes with the eyes of Melampus.