Friday, September 20, 2013


weaping willows gently sway,
in lush pastures swathed in green
my heart is called
what may I find?
with baited breath I go forth
knowing a simper a touch
will be gold

Sunday, September 8, 2013

You Are The Incessant Percussion of My Heart

you are the incessant percussion of my heart
the incense that makes me high
somewhere between pleasure and need,
sight unseen.
how might we live this reverie
with unquellable desire?