Sweet are his lips, my cynic,

Who believes he’s been outdone,

With dyed hands labeled wicked 

Despite their lack of sun,

Tired of his mindful hatred,  

While fumbling with a blouse half undone.

 

Oh my supple seraph love 

Who sings again and again 

The serpent’s song,

And when I start to dance

False Promises bridge gaps along

To complete the sleepy sappy lullaby,

Hummed till we reach our transient fructify. 

 

I might’ve considered the world small 

Back when your voice was on beck and call,

Now you flow past in fragments,

The receiver’s rasp is just too candid.

 

Skipping from fences towards porch swings, 

Leaving lips of tulips scattered amongst your things, 

Soaking the past in ambrosial drippings,

Claiming what‘s mine for the taking.

These are the times I wouldn’t all mind 

Finding myself a little more confined.

 

Don’t blow the candles out

There’s still a little time,

Wishing is for the ones 

Who still have love to find.