in the basket of the mind,
like easter eggs on sunday grass
pastel hands for slowing time.
A misty- trusting face,
just beyond the frosted glass
a spirit mare with feiry mane
that licked the heart with lips aflame
your naive face...into the frosted glass of
Good times coddled a lavender star
within a blackened space,
in place of friendly smiles without names...
they taught you the art of
forging then forgetting scars
with a silly smile,
turned a room of bitter spirits into angels
and blueberry wine...
slowly sliced their lives away.
The golden armed drummer drums the songs of dream,
ice cream trucks and noon church bells
flow into the soul like rose petals on the wind...
strumming songs of love and hatred
like streams of bile and gilded rosary...
Everything is gone now,
the flesh-the bone the bitter laughs
the metal of youth churned into the thinning cloth of age.
Things meant to live and breathe,
will give the soul to the silversmith
rolling life into shimmering dreams.