I want to be
                 your happy poem
    to write myself
                             into your eyes
your lips, your shoulder blades
to fall into your soul
                         and leap from there
into that heart within your heart
not known to you just yet

I want to be
                    the verse that rings as true
        as the promise of your gaze
late in the day, an uncontemplated
word
a whispered phrase which keeps
and holds and stays with you
                throughout the day

I want to be the sound
                        and smell of fresh felled rain
to stir your thoughts as you awake
                        a storm
relentless, unafraid
                       to bring your laughter
and retreat into the wants
                                      within your veins

December's child
with fire you were forged
your eyes are liquid amber poured
always I dream to kiss
your perfect lips divinely cast
the sweetness of your breath
the warmth that moves across my flesh
your hands and arms are sculpted bronze museum art
indelibly in mind when you are far
the hot of your delicious mouth
traveling gently, slowly south.

I sit by the lake,
                                 on the lush green grass,
gently try to break
                                  my inner thoughts,
and silently assimilate
                                 chirping of birds,
rhythmic swaying of trees
                                 by the sweet breeze,
stare at the white cotton clouds
                                 spread on the chimerical blue
and try to soak the pure dew
                    till the morning remains new.

You dream.
You dream like me.
I dream.
I dream of you.
Submit.
Admit to twilight swirls,
You dream,
You dream like me.

During the night,
Out of the blue,
Not always,
Yet always,
In the most unusual settings:
The dreamer and the dream concur
The reality is not so sure.

There's those you expect to see,
Leaning into conversations;
There's others there
We want to talk to,
The scene eludes you,
Trying to get through.

The conversatin goes nowhere:
A room full of comfort people
We're surprised to see.

We think it not quite possible,
But the talk makes us believe
These unreal cacophones,
You see,
You dream,
I dream too.

The cessation of my diurnal tapestry , a nocturnal tale of white horse
tragedy .. As we wait for the eight at nine , where shadows
often appear to be alive , hours run pathetically slow , freezing near dead from head to toe . Suckling from the bitter , wicked teet , normal people now **** where I eat .. Old crow nail , purple tip reactive banter from a starving vulture , the wailing of Lucifer , his consumption of the rotten in the shelter I rest my aching head upon .. Putrid bile breath , painstakingly reconnoiter the veins in both legs , stabbing wretched leather , smell of imminent death at the meeting house , night of inopportune visitation from an old chum long since forgotten ...What will I find when the body expires , when my broken heart finally gives in , when my brain sinks to the murky bottom , when the voices stop calling  . Who will I see , to whom will I greet when religion receives its long awaited answer , when the riddles lay restful and solved , when guilt and needle wounds are calmed ...Will life resume once more upon my fragile piece of Earth or will I jettison on a beam of light around the Universe .. Will there be a Jesus or a creature with intelligence I can't even begin to comprehend or will the bulb be switched to off and that's it ?