O sing in me muses
a tale of some beauty.
Beauty, meaning longing and sorrow
and love that leads to a ******, bitter demise.
Let me feel the cold sweats,
those breathy, exhaustive evenings
filled with the scent of sweet ripend fruits
and slowly drying paints.
I want to be an inspiration for a piece to hang forever
in limbo
in galleries
in Midwestern living rooms.
I want to hang from  branches in olive groves,
purely Greek
but with Nair and Netflix,
making sweet love to the ideals of ancient existence
while surviving the blackest of plagues
(modern immune systems are a Godsend).
Sing deeply into my rib cage, O muses,
so that my bone marrow may vibrate to the point of explosion
causes fragments of calcium to pierce skin
and make beautiful stained glass on the hill side chapels.

You see what you want to see
and everything else is nothing.
We look with our eyes and not
with our hearts as if there is nothing
to look at with tender beauty and
ripend love. we look now at what
is in front of us, but can we see the
future yet? Has that come into focus?
Open your eyes and look into forever
then if it is not clear maybe you are
not looking with eyes wide open
and with a pure heart to see what is
really there.