I wish I knew the color of your eyes, but easily I imagine they're beautiful. I wouldn't close mine for even a second,  not a single blinks worth missing. I'd travel as far as they'd let me go,  I wonder if I could get lost? Or how soft your skin, your hair, or lips; to feel them on my finger tips. To know your imperfections. Lord, to be your last confession. To feel your body pressing mine, it makes me ache and leave my mind.  I see your inner beauty, a certain devine serenation. You'd lull me to my dreams I'm sure, and time would just become this blur. I wish I knew your scent,  so as I make my way thru this mundane life; I'd stumble across your fragrant so sweet, reminiscent is where I'd be. I'm not too concerned with how small or how tall, how narrow or wide, but the tenderness of your soul. Mmm.. I can already envision how heavenly you must be, now this would make me complete..

I am a mutation,
an anomaly,
unique,
a rarity,
and other words,
that mean different,
and alone.

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.

Before you know, you're in your thirties,
Recalling all the days that'd come and gone,
Immixed with nostalgia memories,
Tedious friendships that lasted,
Temporary ones that passed,
Although it's difficult to differentiate,
None I've had with real substance,
Yet here you are, always there...
Picking me up from my self desolation,
Reassuring that I have some value,
Insisting there's worth,
Commiserating my woes,
Everything that defines a friend.

A chariot is thine heart,
O thou rich tressed Selene
In which doth ride the tides,
of ardor, tepid aflame.

Strung to thy chariot by chords
Unseen yet tangible knot,
Whither thy chariot wandereth,
Thither draggeth me, constrained.

The chord unseen, yet bindeth,
Ethereal, tenuous sublime,
A barb so dolorous in seasons!
Other times candescent delight.

What causeth this bond precision?
Nay no reasonable cause,
Entrapped in each a residue
from prior existence unknown?

Why doth the string pull so constant,
Tho' intervenes a thousand miles!
Why cometh thine chariot  instant,
When unseen, my spirits' downcast?

Selene! ageless,deathless, thy Endymion,
Eternal though his sleep,
Our souls entwined forever,
Many an aeon shall we keep!!!