aleatoria prosa

fresh
the color in your face
the tired window panes
repelling dew with stain that smacks of my design
your eyes will irrigate impressions i create in profile's dire estate
with every word i breathe

again, again
regress to invent
when tears are come the colors run
assuming new positions on cheek and tongue
to stories begun:
i won't call it betrayal if you won't call him all that you need

now our conscience will dictate words we conjugate
to communicate the ironies of our great divide
and conscience classifies what conscience still denies
that life left unaccepted resides and dies alone

again, again
regress to invent
when tears are come the colors run
assuming new positions on cheek and tongue
to stories begun:
i won't call it betrayal if you won't call him lover

and i'd sooner regale you with haphazard prose than watch you undress
and i'd sooner undress you and number your spine than poison your symphonic body with mine