Pollen AmberLamp

Emblazoned in Turkish cordial,
Your father's facade looks illusory and hoary,
Further cooling,
Rigidity,
And all round freezing,
Will abscond the perpetually young look,
Pleat in the minutes,

Decisive the weather of autumn or May,
So much so that hoarfrost accumulates,
In your mouth when you,
Complete your breath,
Forming a word that couldn't denote,
Much to a loving one,

You lug your fathers crest in secondary name,
If you're a man this is spliced down the lineage,
Or in egg sack,
Say you're a woman,
And picking out your mate,
Running her fingers down the spine of your length,
Arid in this winter of heats,
And a tribute to your running theme,
Your ache for truth in the liquid,
Seeping down your thighs,

And the lack thereof a sequence of words,
The binding words,
That can halt the ring finger,
In more ways than one,
A dark glass is not filled
Or empty as the contents,
Do not regale a sense of whim,
Or desire to the be speckled ache,
Of the user,
The end of user license agreement,
Is in full swing,
Once stopped your shallow.

© Copyright 2006 Leigh Cole