dear lily,
thoughts on love,
are we not just puppets
the laughing hand above?

we fumble and we bumble
the grease paint blinding
hiding to a bow
the saddened string

only to encore:
i wish we had never met..and write
dreadful poetry about fate
and love and hate..

the dreaded rational
i deserve it..the things
i have done..this show
every cynical maneuver

under the footlights
like a nose that grows with
every lie
goats and cows..mountains..

the scenery changes but
it remains
if only- if-if..
your grass-hopper lover..