Sardonically ironic, moronically harmonic, Are beats of emotions unspent. Overly protective, and somewhat selective, My shoes on the gravel-laden roads Of winter are old. Your silvery hair, neat and bare Is unfinished. We’re not there yet, you and I. My name becomes forgotten, Yesteryears laundry on clotheslines So hauntingly frigid, and cold they could dance. The secret of warmth is lost As the moth dies into the hold of my hands. Bone-framed windows, with a cryptic message Surround my palm-tree hair. My front door is open, hopin’ for a Short visit, of friends I had not there. Winter’s approachin’, tree lines are lookin’ in On the cuckolded dreamers. Repent.