This Poem Is Not For You

Notebook metaphors shimmy around my sleepy head like dancers, with a whisper and a rustle of grass hula skirts as the wind plays footsie with a meadow,

Stars twinkle and shine in my iris like the morning glow captured in a drop of dew, would you care to make a wish?

Those little thoughts of you twining themself together until they are a sturdy woven basket of wanting, carrying a bushel of Eve’s fated apples…

Bare toes wallow in the prison of sweaty work socks, burrowing into the fertile soil of memory where they recall keawe thorns and a salty sea,

Wounds you left inside of me with painful kisses are beginning to heal now, my heart is itching,

Stretching my meaning so thinly you would be able to see daylight through it’s threads if you had bothered to look,

My poetry is crooning softly to the full moon pulling the tides of emotion, and the tides of salty tears,

Yet my pages are dry and so is my humor, because I can laugh at the folly mortals,

Who yearn for warmth when it’s cold inside, then are shocked when the fire burns them.


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