I confer with the samurai;
parley with my widow
She’s suited for suspicion, but taking a naked breath
Cloud upon cloud, lining the delicate heavens;
her double-jointed direction is not aimed

Her favorite book is missing a page
(the last one, at that)
And maybe she’d like to throw me away,
or reroute me through the forest fire
which I know is being built to burn me
(or maybe being burnt to build me)

She made (of me) a thief
I pal around with the vacant moons;
conjunctions in the soles of my shoes
Like bottle rockets in synchronized grandeur
eating away at the gourmet fog,
until the nothing inhibits my kisses
I lose lips, and do away with illusion
(the fantastic arms of my tinder)

And I will enkindle my brides to be,
for never, if not for always;
as I am the element of earth,
growing the fuel she may feed upon
Woe, she may devour me,
as heralded in her many nightmarish revelations
But the phantom plays on, the opera (my friend)
And it is her duty to spread
like wildfire across me
But she needn’t worry her pretty little hothead

For each spring doth make me over again,
and each autumn places me in her arms

Poetry from Fancy Gravity by Shane Windham
E-book and paperback now on Amazon.com

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