for love,
and in love
I dwell in the
chambers of the heart. . .
the penthouse w skylight,
rooftop terrace,
and basement under
construction,
in these
for stories
I keep the
love letters of a life
–some tied with satin bow
–some written in blood
–some love’s opposite and
all of them verbose.
Papered walls
in vital rooms,
I pump them out
to exist!
prose not so much graffiti
as it is script
–dictated by Muse
it’s curious he
flubs lines
when
without him
–there is no
blueprint.
Comments are closed.