Enter. Captured its mood,
pattern and groove
but the lens did not prosper,
offered the precipice:
a precious kiss’ intention to chagrin,
latent in rosy hues --
perfectly content in the cabin.
Patient for only true
nothing, and something
arrives removing corners of
a room where I’m touching
the sides. Pushing the boundaries
only to be pulled from the string,
a marionette cut
-ting its own wires is a beautiful thing.
Exit. Wounds gift the wind an unusual sting:
I've my scars.
You've the heart;
a bunch of burst nerve endings not worth spending.
I've my part (requests to play it are pending).
