how un-easy it stands, this sublime.
through the pocket of an eye
watch it trace the great heart as it sleeps.
as happy as a cocktail stick
hanging with the tulips like an owl.
all corners of it\'s mouth talk upside down.
if only it was sweet enough to rain
to clean the second layer of it\'s skin.
the world itself has yet to grow alone
it\'s lock of hair, it\'s one-dimension prose,
it\'s seven toes of wonderment,
it\'s blanket for the cold hands of a rose.
when comes the last hurrah for sake of kin?
it is August here but still it reigns July.
the seventh earl of constant shade and myth
still spreads his wings of thyme and hyacinth.
the marching band of orpheus
of what great stars are these we cannot see?
the single scar
above the rolling eyes of one such man
who has bottled me as burgundy
and sent me to the heavens in a can.
if only it was sweet enough to rain
the three little pigs of age and chivalry;