Like children do share their toys
We share our hands:
Yours- polished, creamed, golden-ringed,
Butterfly-wing flutterring white,
And mines- beaten to death, full-fisted
With hangover church-chant poetry
Summed up in prayer...
Preacherman"s daughter
You got your father"s speeches,
Your father"s boss" smile,
Your father"s boss" enemy"s eyes:
Deep black, enlighted with an
Innocent wishing of a sin...
Share them with me,
Your eyes,
As you do share your hands
In the sun rises and sunsets,
Awaken and asleeped
Lustly touched, and never felt close...
Our Toys
© Copyright: Manyfaced, 2001
Свидетельство о публикации №101090200290
Свидетельство о публикации №101090200290
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