In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.

Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.

A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.

His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.

The one time you cant trust.
The hardest part.
Is when your puking, in the floor,
clutching a heart tied in knots.

I am the floor.
And the ***** I spit up,
Is your hair.
It's wired it's way,
Into every stomach and vein.
And I am merely a shape,
Clinging in these malignant strands.

A ghost shape cut from starlight.
On the ash tray wood floor planks. Yawing and lurching,
With lost control,
Strapped with constraint.

The ghost gave up it's insides .
Gave up it's happiness,
Gave up all it's heart mind,
Locked it in a box,
Under the floorboards,
And nailed the shutter door panel ******* shut.

His eyes bled out into the Amoire.
The coat closet has his heart.