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Description
Iris somewhere between the cold blue flame of a propane torch
and the clearly defined grey of an Indiana thunderstorm.
Fifty-seven butterflies fall to meet forty-eight,
flirting with the wind like star-crossed lovers unaware
of their unfortunate fate, waving banners proclaiming
undying allegiance to the unkown soul.
A white like linen on a well-to-do traveller in St. Bart's
shines the pale lamplight back.
Maybe now you can know how I become
unnerved, unnamed, undone and unhinged
unchanged, unswerved and unshakeable
when I lock dark portal to soul's beauty with
the pitch black vaccum hole in my own head.
My heart cries out for eyes to see with,
words take too long to move on.

Description
Iris somewhere between the cold blue flame of a propane torch
and the clearly defined grey of an Indiana thunderstorm.
Fifty-seven butterflies fall to meet forty-eight,
flirting with the wind like star-crossed lovers unaware
of their unfortunate fate, waving banners proclaiming
undying allegiance to the unkown soul.
A white like linen on a well-to-do traveller in St. Bart's
shines the pale lamplight back.
Maybe now you can know how I become
unnerved, unnamed, undone and unhinged
unchanged, unswerved and unshakeable
when I lock dark portal to soul's beauty with
the pitch black vaccum hole in my own head.
My heart cries out for eyes to see with,
words take too long to move on.