7:00 am

The morning warmth
wraps a vignette
of lust
around young hearts;
Eager eyes
and Cheshire smiles
delight
in a sumatra blend of
desire;
An instant
transfixed
immutable
as the waterfalls
of our thoughts
pour into each others'
ravenous pools;
A touch
driven by the
instinct of
caramelized passion
ignites caffeinated
temptation;
The steam
of reciprocated
anticipation
salutes
7:00 am.

Ping Pong

He: Moral poetry? I don't believe in moral poetry.

She: What do you mean you don't believe in it? It's simply a sublimer form of moral beauty.

He: Moral beauty is wrapping your warmth around a shivering violet. Poetry is alabaster sunsets and overstated feelings.

She: That's cynical and simple. Besides, isn't what you just said one in the same?

He: No. Not really. The "moral" is in the action.

She: Yes, but bringing to life conscious feeling is action.

He: I suppose that's true. Well, I think I'll take the puppy for a walk. Where's the pooper scooper, love?

Exasperation

It's winter, but the streets are singing.
Vision is burning
My mind is ringing

It's winter, but lights are flying.
Nerves are fraying
My patience is trying

It's winter, but life is feeding.
fingers turn pages
memories are stampeding

Looking up through the ice.
Running through empty streets.
Piercing the stillness.
Scrambled.

Mind Within, Snow Without

The dolorous prelude of grey
etches a phantasmal white cluster
dancing the dance of moribund
pleasure.

But over the darkness - what?
The consciousness of tact and turmoil
quarrells with inner sanctuary and restless
peace.

Thinking of tainting the virgin white;
with fleeting foot and hurricane mind
the body of impulse and appreciation
springs.

The panorama of shadowing half-ruin
evokes a dateless expectancy and
indefinable desire which lingers for another
season.