Walkin on Air
Turmoil
My inner id though smartly hid
may be said to have multivalent scope:
as breasts would feed insatiable greed
ever slaking thirst without hope.
Like water cascades, her hair's brocade
in silver strands become nominal coin
of counterpoise value, an intrinsic snafu
lost beyond the caves of her loin.
Am I two faced or just misplaced
adjacent to my feminine side?
Is it illusion or intrusion,
Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde?
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Turmoil
Turmoil
