the
music in her head’s sad like Napoleon at Waterloo
defeat
happens to everyone it’s a fact of life like snake eyes
sometimes
I dream of you running toward me, other times running away
the
dawn is too damn fast when wearing tennis shoes and pretending to know how
you
laid there like a queen that knows when to greet a new day and when to go to
sleep
my
poetry isn’t masculine and I can prove it by showing you an inside straight
when you said I had to stay outside of your fort it broke my heart
I
want to see you naked and I want to together take the road less traveled by
my
eyes grow tired from impending doom and intruding storms
want
to hang out at the dog park with you even though neither one of us has a dog
I
cannot wait till you allow me to touch your clit and buy you an ice-cream sundae
if
we’re going to get to the truth then we must stop using God’s name in vain
the
music in her heart cuts us loose because no one is good enough to make the
final cut
victory
hangs over our tried and tested heads like the sword of Damocles
nightmares
dog us until we lubricate our sanities with the tears of a black Madonna
Charles Cicirella
4/4/17
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