You see
It lies in the false titles
given to those that bear the fruit.
To gain a recognition for deeds done,
the end goal not always in sight.

See… the warmth is blue,
a sombre heat without light
A form of cold pragmatism,
through exchanges of pregnant love.

You see directions are issued,
But to what end should that suffice?
We don’t all crave a destination, but instead
to be hooked – within two arms.


Peroxide razes her natural tones.
Her crown coloured night,
flitting pink and green.
The alfresco heat
searing her skin scarlet.

She meanders through
roman arcades,
a gauche guitar her companion.

Her fashion
washed in luminescent vogue
to ideals Milano.

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