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.