[040416]
Hello, mister silence,
can’t stand-in-line, foppish.
The absent motive shows to me.
So slick, they ache &
harrowed nerves creak
to join & deft your hair.
So shall we not rest,
cower & yearn,
under handsom privilege,
provident?
Like a cape, a cane, a scabbard, wine,
aloof, alluring;
empty dressings.
In posit of your underwear,
I bet your bed is tousled, sullen,
surmise your health approaches fleer.
A book you’d write would dull my life,
would not incite a tear.
Yet, pretty face, you inspire a man
to act fancy, dimly awaiting answers.
You pull on smoke, alight a corner,
our entire gaze your perch.
But I’m not a pervert,
and thus I’ll shun you,
for no blind dove shall
touch my shirt.