Friends are works of art
lovers are masterpieces
Hope is the paint brush.

I've traveled to Manhattan
walked the steps of
the Metropolitan,
Perused the desecrated
ruins of Mastaba
Tomb of Perneb
walked like the egyptian
stared into the face
of Van Gogh and wept
with the desire to
touch his strokes
as it were his hair.

Faces of a cherished
lovers are like that,
a landscape of wonder,
Hair swaying in
evergreen.

Mountains contour
in shapes of his face
the sun and moon
turn in eyes that
wake in dreams.

His mouth,
soft supple water
of a serene lake.
His mouth,
sweetly wet and deep,
sky that pulsates
and overflows into
murmurs succumbing
to the miracle
of wind song
in surrender.