shake things up
shake things down
shape things wild
a n d
b o x
t h e m
i n
right
or
wrong
it’s all
t h e y ’ v e
b e e n
*
they’ve seen
g r e y
they’ve seen
b l a c k ,
demure shades—
a field of
d r e a m s
right
or
wrong
it’s all
t h e y ’ v e
s e e n
*
now,
and then,
been...
...and seen,
tonight,
grey worlds,
be
come
s w e e t
d r e a m s
i write
on your page
slightly tickling
your skin
with a
white
f e a t h e r
dipping my finger
into the porcelain
inkwell—
so delicately
moist with
i n d i g o
i n k
my soft
strokes very
lightly caress
the most sensitive
creases
on your
p a g e
i take my
dripping finger,
full of sensuous thirst,
and autograph
some verse bites
on your back
c o v e r
and all night long
i keep writing
free rhymes
until you
drunkenly
fall
a s l e e p
no need
for more words
as smudged ink
reveals i am about
to lose a bird
of my own
f e a t h e r
so long,
writing lover
of mine—
here is one last
indigo ink
tickle
for your
g o o d n i g h t
p o e t i c
d r e a m s
do you think
i should let
go now
and stop
picking up
those fallen
leaves?
i loved
collecting
them
for my
vintage
album
as inspired
by that
magical
bond
i
a
l
w
a
y
s
cherished,
embraced,
yet
n
e
v
e
r
e v e r
saw
flourish,
(d i d i
j u s t
i m a g i n e
i t . . .?)
the touch
of those leaves
still feels
too raw
i t
s t i r s
m y
s o u l
n a k e d
yet,
I keep
hoping
for the day
i’ll see your
handsome
tree
s
t
a
n
d
i
n
g
t
a
l
l
and,
finally,
and,
s u r e l y,
f o r
e v e r
g
r
e
e
n
the door
wide open
s
a
l
o
o
n
style
i load my gun
i fake a
smile
and take
a sip
of some
old
w
i
n
e
and on my
way
i turn
around
i catch
a glimpse
of something
tragic
a little spy
tearing
through
my old
blue
d
i
a
r
y
(beware those
loaded
verses)
like the
b
a
n
d
i
d
reader
that you
are
LannaZee 