My eyes are getting
Soft and wet and red
Thinking about the softness
Of her once tough bed
Music moved through her hair
Like a winter wind
Like a cheap red wine
Time kills kindling hearts whose fuel
Is the red juice, the red stuff
She sampled freedom with men not of me
I told her that freedom is to be free
That to be free is to feel the weight of the eternal world
The drifting leaves to not know of love
For they are love
They are the burning bushes which spoke to the shamans
Moses
The mad men
Her and I were the drifting glitter
From a thirteen year olds first ever
Real birthday wish
Now with her gone wishing seems
Like trying to talk to God
To hear is to
Believe
And to believe
Is perhaps
To be temporarily
Deceived