Wicked games we play, tangled webs we weave, wandering, wondering; what it all means.
and vermouth –
shoulda’ woulda’ coulda’ and I don’t.
Oh? – he asks, puzzled-
Then angry, Why the hell not?
Again, never you mind –
it’s none of your beeswax good sir.
I see right through, to the heart of you, where miracles are held by the bay. From near, we are far, like driving in a car; couldn’t help but notice the fray. Little frazzled, still bedazzled, a sparkle of chrome here to stay.
But I thought…
No. You didn’t think – that’s the problem.
Here’s one for you, one for me, as they wrapped around a tree, snuggling branches as if to say they’d never hugged (see…)
Nope, not today, will not enter into maze –
nor wander aimless with no mark.
kick rocks or whatever.