I’m waiting for something
That I’m not sure will ever come.
They call it fate,
A whirling swirling
Hurl of energy that sweeps
Hair a mile away
And spins a furled fury
I imagine it as a she,
And for many it’s something else.
But I suppose I chose the thinner path.
Perhaps I’m surly,
So sure of my tantrum
I may never be smitten.
Might be I’m the perfect masochist,
Waiting for the sun
To burn my eyes out
As I’m staring at the moon.
The stars remind me of days
When I could be dizzy for free,
And it didn’t cost me ringing ears
And a sore head.
Many days could go by,
Many long legs
Prancing eyes that draw
My gaze, but I’ll just as soon shoot myself
In the foot before I dance too.
There are so many stories and daydreams
That spin in my head that
I can’t tell if my life is written
In blood or ink. Sometimes
I can’t see the sky past clouds
That cluster in my throat and most
Of the time it begins to burn.
I would wish for a change in luck,
For some kind of cupid arrow pull,
But when a dandelion losses its fur
It becomes something like a skull.