The ways I do not comprehend and will probably not 'til the end of my days
but in truth
there is this,
A kiss
is a mountain of gold that unfolds like a rose
and those who are fated to live life without such
are the ones who would not know much
about love.

Nothing stands above the heavenly touch of lips upon mine
nor can wine or whiskey diminish
the lustre that lays upon each kisses finish
and should you not fall upon this way which is open to all
then you have my pity
as I watch as you fall
for what is it that is not
but a sweet kiss then forgot and only remembered
in the slumber of old men where the dreams are oft painted
with the taintings of youth.

Kissing each truth as presented tasting the fruit
when fermented
getting drunk and demented by
unrelenting desire
that the lips set on fire.
Fleeting.

And on meeting these musings
accusing myself of an understanding I lack
I go back for one more kiss
to decide if I did miss
the mountain
the fountain
the rose.