i write as the dew drops cover my window
such is the morning...another day of innuendos
my influence has never been
but from the look in her eyes,you wouldnt say thats the end.
some sort of wonderful start
a heart to chart
tattered and torn-varnished
like "baby...we've become real art"
and her movements are subtle
I hover around like the hubble
watching her twist to the symphony
that is her mind...a quiet,delicate shrine
much like mine but pumped full of doubts
by those who stand on the sideline and pout
its like all these routes pulled me in directions
of final movements & later,resting places
like Ive been infected with this overwhelming sense to do good
yet for others
a mere morning...staunch views
sips of coffee like we need another vice to abuse
& all the while,I sit on the edge of forever...just waiting for you.