I'd rather be the tinges of light on her lips
Than spend our hours thus far.
Even as nectar that drips along stem,
In days that are drunk full of spring,
So would I cling as striplings of light
And flicker on her curves with abandon and zeal
With ecstasy of surrealist thrill.
Or would I tangle in truant little locks
And swing by with grace her forehead and cheeks
Which beckon as if shores to a sailor now lost
With songs that'll gallop through your veins.
Or would I dangle as rubies in ears
That dazzle my eyes among hot summer waves
And glow as if lighthouse in dark brooding storm
With light that'll shine through my nights.
These be the fond little hopes of a heart
That seals itself tight with professional keys
And speaks nothing more than is must.
Bound by the fishnets of duties and don'ts,
The artisan of words now discards his ware
And engraves his lot to an adoration blessed,
Distant and silent at once.