25.

Night, cannot hide, the
ways in which I can't forget
you. How hard I try.

24.

Supine lust carves out
the lashes on a passing
frenzy of passion.

23.

Distractions in the
air sift dreams throughout your eyes
in a lashed frenzy.

Twenty-two.

Plaintive sorrow lends
beautiful lament in sounds
that are heart breaking.

Twenty-one.

Your eyes tell stories
from within gentle whispers,
fractured in the night.

Twenty.

In the silence of
night, stars break like waves towards
the encroaching dawn.

Nineteen.

The sun moves in a
desperate miming, fisting
hands into the clouds.

Eighteen.

Pink Floyd is Alice,
Wonderland seen through acid
tinged eyes and split tongues.

Seventeen.

His jungle pressed flesh
waits with dead man's camouflage
for missing saviors.

Sixteen.

Pinked flesh, hungry and
flush under the push pull of
a needle strewn back.

Fifteen.

Days of warmed laughter
fall into ready patterns
of lemonade and

softly turning fans.
Enjoyed from canopies of
our joint hammock dreams.

Fourteen.

The kids next door make
me ever grateful for the
use of birth control.

Thirteen.

I can't wait for the
turn of foliage, falling
leaves and crisp weather,

to start. Cool months should
be mandated to usurp
heat altogether.

Twelve.

Take my hand, bow to
splendor, dressed in the colors
of celebration.