They want to have you in their pictures,
And squeeze your fingers, thin like guitar strings
To play the lead role in the poet’s scriptures
And fit your chest gap like Saturn does its rings.
They will throw sugar in your tea;
Invent a sweet nickname to call you by.
Eventually they’ll tear off your neck the key
While renting space under your amber sky.
On Halloween they’ll party at the railway station
Tell me, are there any lonely ghosts to foster?
Watch spooky souls fill up the autumnal duration
I bet it’s fun to parent one shy fluffy monster
It must be staggering to see you so devout
To thoughts you sow and songs you reap.
How many romances does one write out
To finish songs that lull my heart to sleep?
That crystal ball in ******’s hand..
I wonder what it’s for?
Is it an import from Red Planet where only dreamers land?
If so, how many smuggled feelings does it store?
I know, I will some day recycle
This dream of mine, a poet’s wish
Into a new desire, say, for a brand new unicycle
And once I get it, I’ll go search for a goldfish.
I’ll pick an urban goldfish from the pond,
And hand it to a girl, smiling with glee
It’ll grant her any wish due to our special bond, Pray she won’t waste it on a music deity, like me!
To a fellow poet Tom Ogden from “Blossoms”, who loves amber skies.