Your smile,
touch,
smell,
and kiss i miss,
the way our eyes locked in tandem
and our touch portrayed a love not afraid
to dance free as birds and the way we would
play day after day, a laughter so gay that held
our love, our love, our love pay.

The novelty of life riddles
like a well worn wild west heroes
crimson moon,
desert saddle that cries too long
and wears its time too
for all to see on the prairie,
as far as the eye can see,
you sing to the moon's sad lament
and cry into your beans night after night.

The forgotten man, lost and lonely.
A ghost to himself, a joke.
A **** poor caricature.
Riddle with regret, no more here or now,
just a waste of time to walk on tears,
that haunt hymn by gone years.

Backwater,
*******,
ex show jumper,
bit of a show off,
part time pole vaulter and extreme skier,
also a good dancer,
haunted by libraries.
You smell the party vibe almost too late
to kick the can that pass the swallow of kisses
not meant, a ballroom behind the meaning,
shut up or fall down,
are you dreaming or shang-a-lang meaing,
misdemeanor a pantomime curse,
that smiles and curses your evening,
hello there is a light that doesn't go out now,
now.

The minute you walk with, is an hour to me,
its sweet and sour taste, kicks nostalgia
into a freefall, and makes a sand dune mine manure
naturals not in tune with pastels or truth more real life.
Dondastan clearwater renewal, love is the drug and
the slow dance, tranquil too pure, ok, ok, I see the snow.
So pure but my gun isn't loaded, gave up the victor manure.
Back to nature on a roundabout of pain, like the last follower
of their favourite game, no one standing at the last chance saloon,
one day we'll dance by the light of the moon,
the moon, the moon, the moon.

Wipe away your tears you drunk,
too many fears again,
you gave away all those years to a passing lullaby,
the poets end, the poets end.
Hello my friend, a martyr to pretend and still waters flow
to the heartaches that swallow your pride, comparability
too close for comfort and you wave to the poets end,
the poets end.

No bells ring.
No birds sing.
Sabbath ****** sabbath.
I was your altar, a masquerade to surrender,
to tarnished pity and repo splendour,
to sick on the adventure of a holy matador,
blind to submission, one more kiss to caress,
the void that belief will conquer, no prisoner of faith
that will serenade past again and again, torture laughter
and warm, warm rain.