Golden Rod Mornings, life within swaying grass,
walking through the field with lovers,
holding hands and smiling to one another.
I sip coffee at the bar, they watch orbs dance and smile
tv offers no news about the war in Iraq/I ran
so far away, and seagulls flap away.
Strawberries nailed to the plaster wall,
Olievert and Alexandra are two places I wish to be
No fields to travel, no chocobos to climb upon,
Caverns and crayons filled without water and wear,
I need not that touch, but the material that burns the cloth
black mages and white skies summoning Bahamut within
the endless seas reach around the world to back home
where you lie in my arms.
Necking is a terrible form of anatomy.
A single drop splashing along the dead waves
of the moonlit sea, formed in the ways of the night.
Grass and leaves float down from trees leaving on
limbs to climb on and hold tight to.
Think are beautiful, believe in the mirror
that lies here and there, its crevices filled
with doubt and care of the limbless phantom,
watching over you and waving back and forth,
no leaves to hide beneath, only artificial wind created,
fused to the bathtub with lye and vinegar, 12 monkeys
dance on with me and you under the moonlit sea,
Shiva stretches her arms for us.
The place I will return to someday lies locked
in a broom closet, tumbled about and held tightly
groaning and moaning seeking and searing kissing and wishing
I can not hold on much longer...
Fields freak out at the sight of sun, but you
but you my dear... you smile serene lips and I
reach out a hand to grasp hold the simple task of you
lye not with me but only to me, and I shall forever
never forsake you.
Alexandra is a home, built on rumble and rhyme,
deep Texans and butchers hold no d'jinn here, but only
the lonely find me at home. A hospital room
is painted white so the lovers will only see their reflection
in it is the lye of the dream, my dear, my dear Olievert
lies in my bed, the sheet scattered over her body,
and moonlit room hid all that I wanted to see.
I slept on the couch that night.
I climbed the crying mountain to meet the Dolly
llama, isn't that enough to keep it in my bed with us
but the nights are cold and I need a comfort-her.
That thing called a speed limit ya suppose to break it.
My couch is hard and lumpy but she loved it
when we lie and watch the sinful movies of the woman
cheating on her husband and watching him die.
I haven't seen porn in weeks...
and she is ready to cry.
I want to lie in my golden rod meadows again
and see the morning rise in the distance, her hand in mine
and mine in hers
and I slept through the night with her on me chest
half way from head to toe, but cloths aren't scattered
only seeds of strawberries.
Her nails were done with them and I thought the color beautiful,
so I let it be and lied down for more.
I want to be in Alexandra again, the bears and rabbits watching me
A dolly llama asking me for advice
on a box with nothing in it
but I give it nevertheless
and the sea of the moonlit cavern and crayon flows
the sheets scattered on her nude body
and I stand in the door way, a shadow on the field of play,
where I want be forever
never forsake you.
And she is ready to cry.
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