is it the end, just yet?
or are we waiting for it to start.
it’s so confusing sometimes
trying to understand our heart.
it has not been a life time
of souls separated by life
but there’s a pull of the life line
from a core of drum and fife.
will I cook?
will you clean?
will our love
eventually turn mean?
and how fair is a poem just for you
with such little built between us?
or are these few words the beams
that will fasten our great truss?
oh tell me not what time it is
in these deserts of complacency
where loves pass by on horses white
and the days pass on endlessly.
The rain in your voice
is a welcome distraction
while the sun in your eyes
compels the attraction,
and I fear I won’t live
beyond these few hours
where in my ignored heart
I find blooming summer flowers
that may wilt without your lilting song;
the rain to set my desert in bloom
is the sweetest patter upon my ear
and drives my thoughts to your room.
screaming at low volumes
