the fragrance writer

Half sifted sand was
all that I could get
Like hourglasses that
I found too late
I wrestled with the
writer of my fate
He let me win and
I could not forget

I don’t want it
to be meaningless.

Making the days pass
on like long shadows
It’s only thoughts that
block the sun from me
A shade where it’s
impossible to see
For better or for worse,
while sand still flows

What kisses, given,
from the mouth come not?
Or gentle words, soft spoken,
“hit the spot?”
Cute little butterflies
upon the face.

But I am not a friend,
I am a lover!

And more than just your thoughts
I long to taste.
Please, pull me close,
your hands upon my hips
And read to me,
not syllables, but lips.

If I have sin upon my hand,
Against a dearest friend,
Then bury me into the sand,
From dust, beginning, end.

God is a tempest, looking down
While drawing on his bow.
His sword is sharp, when trumpts will sound
The sinners, then, will know.

My vindication was a dance
I should have sat it out.
With clumsy feet, I took a chance
My partners tell me out

If He, of wrath, would be a shield
A spirit could find health.
My aching pains could then be healed
Protect me from myself

Within’ my hands,
I held the wind,
My fingers
felt its breathe.
There for a moment,
gone again,
’till there was
nothing left.

Today I woke
to see the sun.
It wasn’t
very fun.
It showed of pain,
of suffering
When will this day
be done?

I left the womb
in trembling,
Will leave
just as I came.
The comfortless
need comforting,
Death’s sentiments:
The same.

Under the heavens,
down below,
No answer to
this riddle.
All meaningless,
I charge it so,
Life does not
seek acquittal.

I’d turn the knob but look
there is no latch!
There’s only swinging
hinges on their door
With baskets, deep and gold
may be the catch.
No accusations that
they’re quite a… “bore?”

But not a fair
analogy
for she.

Yes, down she looks,
From up, her towers, tall.
Athletic gestures,
jousting to the top
I’ll climb her love
which stands firm as a wall
With perfect time,
no motioning to stop.