There is nothing that I know of in this world
which can embody the belief in your words,
embalm the truth and sleuth of human desire
and pictures' meanings on innate display.
Listen,
stage which,
in time expresses rage.
Mellow sage within a cage
mind as a guage.
To assess the diamond's luster
judge in clusters.
You tell me of your soft skin feet, worn
hard shoes torn, and rapture indiscrete,
coat rack empty, juxtaposed, lonely, smoking weed.
Semiotics' indisposed faltered mindset.
Called to motion
arms brought forth,
hot words sit heavy
linger until drawn upon.
Chessboard system of buffs,
barrel at the brim
quiet eyes lasting
however long, feasting.
A million years a billion lives a single sigh,
ten thousand kisses flourished upon meaning.
My exposition: "I should be dead," I cry,
and wince with death as I tighten the reins.
"Grieve centuries
but not without one last look at me.
One last look at what was what you thought,
but no longer the same as you sought."
Grave disposition.
Idols burned, chasm safely avoided.
A fool carries singed triumph and
unloads a heap onto nothing space.
Burden lifted, a duet
blatantly isolated from one another.
All still yearned.
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