You have bright
In your hand is right
So hold the pen tight
Never let the ideas flight

Stay quite and think
about white and pink
On your palm is a link
It will never let you sink

full of silence
emptied of song
terrible in beauty
and glorious

in her step, traversing
every rainbowed bridge
and leaping, leaping,
glorious in her dance

Rigid reactions, raw religion
redacting life's riots,
mercilessly.
Emotional rollercoaster,
roars of despair, ready rites,
endlessly.

Somewhere
a kitchen light still glows
on an immense orange cat
waiting to scour both dog bowls
for leftovers
that have yet to appear
after even a single meal.
Twilight throwing
lavender shadows
across the cramped
polaroid drenched kitchen
where you slow danced
to something acoustic
before saying your first goodbye
on a bare concrete balcony
studded with cigarette ash
and stars.

She could turn a conversation
on a sixpence,
( sorry ) past tense
she still can.

What chance does a mere man have?
little chance, no chance, last chance
oh,
she can lead me on a merry dance
and
at the same time play the tune.

When I grow up
which should be soon
or as soon as the moon sheds a tear,
I will wear a tiara and see what she
makes of that.