The Blood of the Artist


Troll dance, of day beams,
Turning stones to pebble crunching,
Sundae thirst, in passing words,
And dripping eye-pools, of limpid thought...

So, spooning curtains of the mind,
In aberrent nudging, coldswept;
Nourishing drinks of redolent cheer,
And pert tea cups, with puppy dog noses.

A delicate forethought to a stuck tongue kiss,
And a bushy sweet triangle, which I find that I miss.

Do you wish for star-dust in your eyes,
To sparkle darkness on the edge of an idea.
I need to breathe your nectar and then ride it home.
Yet all I do is scribble in this fitful tome....

....With the lines of a cheetah,
And a crop to totter mortals:
All chaste, and to a blush,
Met and mirrored...

We so young. You so beautiful.
I so forward speaking.
The fastened hand of gentle grip,
and caring resposibility; could be trusted,
and justice.

                                  jimtom say...