could she be a literary pope,
signs on the pages arranged
into a Latin-like custom, out of ether
into that virtually diminishing world,
hands-on experience traded for nothing
but practice of high hopes to evolve,
making a difference that simple, effective,
measurable enough to reach.
instead could she dream of something real,
cold, sharp, plausible; stop saying to her
practise only what you preach

it's not a church therein
aching for some sanctuary
since she's on a steep *****.
with some bookish praise still echoing
high-brow bigotry far away
in messages too slow,
she knows only to be in the moment

there pages may feel shame,
money might talk loud,
augmented hands carry powers,
about to be contemporary gods.
could she be told a book is just a book?
shaking from within,
shaken to her core,
a lurking reality:
numbers of them biting the dust,
appeasing, retiring into nonsense
and whatnot,
they revel in everything

My amber, my emerald,
Come ring me.

These unencircled fingers
In thrall with you
Stay unassumed, almost daily.

I missed you way too long!
It's when the dream lingers,
Almost the end of night,
That I may put you on
These preppy pallid
Particles,
You my vibrant petites.


You can hardly
Lay there sheltered
In the box,
Cool and amorous.

What is part of you now,
Does it solidify in silver?
Are you cast in gold?
They say, humans
Absorb them too.

But you always shine
Embracing
Everything you do.
I'd just as soon
Come to be in you.

Oh, to contain substance
So virtually fluid!
It seems many a day
I am still in search of it (of you).

Why then you dissociate
Just like that,
Or is it from my dream?
That easy to be ****** in love.

When the time comes
to suffuse with cerulean,
It'd better be us
To come up with utopian
                          Christmas.
Never warned but
It's always a hot mess:
Lights, a decorous manner
             Of telling the truth,
So bombastic each trimming
                  Of your spruce!
Yes, guests..If only
    With obsequious manners,
           And de minimis SADs.
We will toast with
Most tarnished of their plights
To such a pandemonium!
We will wager in candlelights
To never cease
This ferociousness over the feast.
How can this be measured
                        By what it seems
In a moral world desperate
                                    To digest
Everyone, given it a chance
Until there's a fetid nuisance.
So, it'd better be us.

That night had as ever
The light that was all
But a burden.
The stars could
Obtusely loom bright
But that's known too well
If you long for the story:
Bear no shame to tell.
A sickness of grudge overlaps
Lest you keep it intact
Off a road to wilderness
Of thoughts to become yet
Quite yours.
It's a very own cleanse
In pursuit of a remarkable journey,
A yarn spinned
Of too yielding words.

THEY broke into my storyline:
confections served were not so slight
still i missed out on YOU at first,
that trace YOU gave of sheer remorse
put that now in you head,
sweet THING!
my guilty pleasure feels like savoring.
a palate to transpire any doubts -
a skill of tiger on the prowl

it's the plot of a mindless fling,
i care for YOU to be within
though such acting's bound with letters' dire ******,
i see YOU TWO again to have my bliss

i read YOU out,
i spell YOU!
then write YOU down
i read YOU out,
i spell YOU,
then write YOU down

it's been a while i had my click
with all the fluff i cared to think
i thought this time WE may never part,
but YOU are in the line with change of heart

it's the plot of a mindless fling,
i care for YOU to be within
though such acting's bound with letters' dire ******,
i see YOU TWO again to have my bliss

i reread YOU out,
i spell YOU!
then rewrite YOU down
i read YOU out,
i spell YOU,
then write YOU down