Curve

August 14, 2008

She dances along the

rooftop of my mind.

Blindly.

And I,

                Blinded.

                Taste her.

These feelings.

                She creates.

                                Beats.

                                Suddenly.                            Deeply.

And when

She looks down on me.

                From up there.

                                I know.

                Confusion

Is a friend.

                In times like these.

                Masked.

Wrapped.

                Like a fire.

Whereas.

And she dances.

                Further along.

My sacred plight.

Wishes brew beside me.

                And this wooden stump.

Nestled within my chin.

Beckons.

                For her singing rain.

Once again.