Love, one magic number counts four letters of chance and change, positive to negative on your life line a test handed in and then passed and rearranged.
Love, a perfect prism’s reign of color – incarnadine and rosy – lies like a white rabbit’s eyes they follow you. Upstairs, a curtain’s drawn open to a magician who hides up inside his sleeve dark tricks though at first sight you still watch him closely.
Love, lives in a magic city. A filthy town, where you arrived this afternoon, driving deserted sand hill lined roads, the landscape finally yields to billboards on which you read that in the suburbs no ones home or even sleeping.
Love curls like a lazy house cat. Striped and fat it’s mind wanders to windows sleepy and teased by birds and other moving targets.
Love runs faster than a sports car. Shining, topless, windy hair whips your at your cheek – it wasn’t meant to breakdown when you need the ride the most and leaving you in solitude its engine sounds like goodbye.
Love sails with you upon a magic carpet from far away it stops and awakens you from silken dreams. Burgundy and bubbly flows through you and turns your inside out from smiles to screams of pain.
Love, the story playing in a cool dark theater. The wife died at the end the husband writes, couldn’t it be me not her? Then he wipes his eyes and instead with deep regret, throws out his pen and just asks why?