Hope.
Hope is like the air inside a balloon.
Just because you can't see it
doesn't mean it isn't there.

A forgotten, almost sacred hole
Lies in the shadow of the bramble knoll,
Into the foggy night we stole,
Down, down into McGregor's Grotto.

We crossed the steadily flowing brook,
With fear and trepidation shook,
And into the gaping maw we looked,
Down, down into McGregor's Grotto.

The icy cavern was eerily sublime
Covered in mud and moss and slime,
Over the scaly rocks we climbed,
Down, down into McGregor's Grotto.

My eye into the darkness strains
When frigid air seeped to our brains,
And blood ceased flowing through our veins,
Down, down in McGregor's Grotto.

Bursting out, we took our flight
Escaping from the horrid fright
Of what we saw that autumn night,
Down, down in McGregor's Grotto.

We swore to never bring to mind
The thought of what was left behind,
Down, down in McGregor's Grotto.
Down, down in McGregor's Grotto.

In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.

Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.

A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.

His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.

A voice now forgotten, your memories displaced,
What once was warm and tender, beneath the ice encased.
Bluntly reignited, defenseless your voice entreats,
Searching for the source, finding treachery, deceit.
Endlessly tortured, by the ghosts that haunt this place.

An attempt to cope, to mask this bitter taste,
My mind stoicly vacant, then demanded by your face.
Gazing into the distance, catch a flash of golden hair,
Desperate to find you, but into emptiness I stare.
Foiled again, by your ghosts that haunt this place.

Habits I must repattern, and footsteps to retrace
Dispose of lingering tokens, never to replace.
Trying to redeem, the time I have lost with you,
And the time that I have squandered, I never will renew,
By chasing your ghosts that haunt this place.

When I grow up,
I want to marry
A Hollister model.

Mother says
I should reconsider.
Seriously,
Reconsider.

But deep down,
I know
that's what I want.

Because behind all of
The airbrush
The diets
The workouts
The computer enhancements
There lies,
A woman.

And on that woman,
Somewhere,
there lies
Scar tissue?
A birthmark?
Or worst of all..
A zit.

Somewhere,
On that perfect woman
There lies,
An imperfection.

And that is why I love her.

Standing in the August sun,
Your skin soaks up the light,
And saves it for November,
When clouds occlude the sky.

The gentle breeze softly coaxes
The folds of your paisley dress,
To gather up their courage
And ask your hair to dance.

Silent finches straining to hear,
Her soaring, piccolo laugh.
The waves cresting to see,
Her pure and radiant smile.

Like stars that come to speckle
The navy nighttime sky,
Each morning a brand new freckle
Appears below your eye.

Adorned with grace and charm,
With patience and joy complete,
Dare not to look away,
None other can compete.

Grumbling fingers,
Untying scarlet ribbons,
White banners to unfurl,
And forfeit to the beauty,
Of my gorgeous summer girl.

There's a gaping hole inside my chest,
Below my neck and above my breast.
For your cheek and chin, that line was drawn,
A place to rest from dusk till dawn.