the amputee


he’s sewn up,

sore.

and, missing;

something?

some things?

or,

somewhere?


missing.


missing; somewhat?

or, is it, someone?


a jigsaw piece;

minus it’s edge.

a garden hose;

but no hedge.

a windowsill;

without a ledge.


this fascination

with forbidden lust

is an –

amputee –

both arms;

taken;

forsaken.


and, with that being said,

he’s; still;

besotted

with a pair of gloves.


but, nevertheless,

trustily supported

by two good legs.


epiphany;

disregarded.


for, what one lacks,

sore,

one doesn’t

necessarily know

not to need

in these

matters of amour.


and,

regrettably,

one should never

overlook;

what’s beneath,

when able

to take a ride

on

romance’s

intimate see-saw.


nor,

turn their backs

on

true love’s

magnificent stampede;

in boots;

inconsiderately worn.


Sweet Dreams


You are nothing.


You are everything.


You are magic in a box high up on a hill overlooking the universe.


A box which is opened every time that you sleep.


Revelations decoded as the lid is lifted.


Sweet dreams.


Memories casting spells from the spirit-world which transport you throughout space and time.


Future presenting past – transversing as one across existence.


Immortality isn’t hard to imagine when you dream rather than think.


Your flesh will turn to dust and travel on the wings of your essence with reverie as captain.


Flying metaphysically.