time worth ash i spent in gold, two summers
ago sweet apples, a break and burst from
my old self, those iron anvil shackles.

there was she, a poem herself, her words
exotic and sour-- a drizzle of oil, olives
in her eyes; her treacle breath a shower

"words don't matter, meaning dies, just
think not your words you write-- syntax and
grammar shouldn't be used, and never out of spite."

she told me there of artistic lies, her ways
of writing bare, those bubblegum hearts and
lemonade tears evaporating into air.

talent was she; still she stood oblivious
laughing snowflakes blush, they melted
in the summer heat, wash away my crush.