Villt hross að fara

This years best season,

Ending on such sour notes,

Giving way to good harvest,

With a lesson-remote.

Curled lying lips corrupt,

Undue, unjust,

Never makes for loving so much.

Faded memory still passing like thinning fog

Only at the bottom of mountain tops on Tuesdays-

Leaving room for another’s endless hope I collect

Like the sun’s rays beaming trust.

So sorry for that luck,

I’m bundling up:

Emotional blackmail,

Piled on the porch untouched.

And I am returning to sender,

A forked tongue and angled tail benders.

All the stagnant,

Unpragmatic-

Three soul mates a year sort of romantic love.

Along with the hateful glances of a barely mortal man’s drunken red anger

Based somewhere in the what I have’s-

What you should entail,

And the what happened not’s.

I leave it world’s away

Trying to control so much while-

Fabricating nebulous notions

for ornamental pickles.

Dangling  for the sake of art’s sake.

Emotional courtship only,

Floating the bragard’s specter boat-

Like it’s a hold you up crutch keeping hope afloat.

So it’s my serendipitous road from here on out,

To the golden ocher leaves of real adoration

And undying crimson devotional lust-

Hidden In his soft kiss and rough handed soul

Plucking strings like Santana,

Healing the troves of

goodness,

And just his burning blue eyes,

Making diamonds out of my scars,

Between the planks on ocean pier moonlit walks.

 

 

 

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