Cow itch circle the hills
Picking up speed, what a nuisance:
My body became numb: the torturous seeds
The native never seem move: by the “muckleheads”.
The itch and the sand flies: a duel team

I was the victim: The vice was on my back
Under house arrest, a meltdown I was so trap
It was time to leave all of the seedpods behind
Fever, malaise, drenching sweats and chills:

I remember once I told a fan, about my kind of therapy
My morning’s session, of cleansing the mind
A blast of my past: the uneven dots on my temple walls
Am I making a break through, nope I never had closure,

The groom wore red, on his special day.
I was the one that wore velvety black,
but I celebrated their reunion with a tall glass of
Ca’ del Bosco Cuvée Prestige Brut, Franciacorta DOCG.
Wine:

I’m far too clever to be taken likely:
So, I  let  my poetry writing do its own disciplined

**"If you can’t be a poet, be the poem. – David Carradine"