she pours me a glass of wine
and with overgentle hand caresses my cheek
tells me a tale from her long ago
in a strange voice like smoke
tells me me of a love that chimed like the bells of spring
rang straight and true
like carefully crafted glass slippers on the night dancer
like all the comfortable things that she keeps
in the closet of her heart

pulling out the decorations in dusty celebration
of the summer night years past
with the photographs sad with their smiles
that true love of her girlhood
standing in the dusk holding his hand
and the kiss like a king and his blushing princess bride
she was so nervous she left her shoes on the lake shore

and when he was gone to the distant winter gate
she lingered by the icicle window tracing with
a finger hearts with his name
she laughs with a ghost of a tear
over how silly she had been
her first kiss hadn't been with such fanfares
and flowing silken robes
but with some handsome lad
who is now lost to the vastness of years
but she still has the picture of her in that dress
standing on the lake shore with shoes in hand
while the carnival spun in the background like a drunken man
whos song has given way to his lament

Soft gazes,
blind fingertips,
crooked smiles,
crimson cheeks;
cheekbones high with something inexplicable.

Happiness melding with the slow notes of hope, perhaps?

Something ribbons and flits in the air-
it's sweet, bitter but enchanting.  

I'll inhale it infinitely.
∞
Let happy seep into these starved veins.

Fill this empty, empty heart,
please
?

the trials of the free mind in gilded cage
reflected in the ever changing cityscape of this hovel
but even unadorned ramshackle house
has the beauty of heaven in the grace of her presence

she is the
narrow span of spoken emotional poetry
its free verse flows in her auburn dreadlocks
and in the delicate shift of her adorned wrist
its bejewelled hushed metal chatter the sounds of her bracelets
but the true verse of this eloquent breathing walking poem
is the warmth and loves that shine
in her gothic eyes

she is
ethereal and subtle creature laying
uncovered and ****** in my tangled sheets
with the whisper of sleep on her soft painted lips

I'm not myself,
Just another book on the shelf,
Showing my spine,
But it's not yours, it's mine.

Judge this book by its cover,
Because you don't want to discover,
The truth between my pages,
This book has been rotting ages.

As my pages turn yellow,
You read that I am mellow,
As your hands turn black from ink,
I pray that I would sink.

You think you know the real me,
You think that I feel free,
But no book can be himself,
When he's stuck on your reading shelf.