Godiva

I cannot pretend to be a box of chocolate.

Shouldn't you have awakened as well?

Those who dream that they are Cleopatra

Awaken to find black booted reality

Stomping upon their crystalline fancies.

Shards of unhinged mirror swallow longingly

Like Bedouins in search of one drop of liquid sustenance.

Blasé, demure, fiddle some, déjà vu.

Old dreams hang upon the brow like beads of sweat,

Trickling down where they are happily caught on the tongue

Which delights in their salty-sweet-haziness.

That is all which remains of who I was in murky hoped for memory.

She and I may have been writing you.

Would you recognize our hands?

My pen hummed longingly - hungry for words;

Children of its unholy union with wanton paper

And thought.

No idea hadn't been dangerous,

And safety wasn't my aim.

Smoke hadn't dropped me,

And I am not ready to surrender.