When the waves of the everyday
crash down like Neptune's fiercest revenge,
I escape to your safe corner
where freedom is the surprise:
freedom to embellish my airy
ramblings with art
(the sister of poetry)
on a stage where we
drip honey
and agony
and preform coronations.
And choirs sing and crowns glitter
in that freedom,
so private in the heyday of my other life
out there,
that absurd farce of security
we were born into
and trudge through
because we were told to.
But here,
alive and whirling with ideas
shouted out like Gabriel's trumpet,
pulsing like midnight avenues
and splashed with the colors of
who we are at any and every moment
we finally meet ourselves,
I revel and carouse with words,
and it was always
all about words.
And whatever pigment we douse them with
in our dash to personal heavens,
in the abandon of who we choose to be,
our words are, in the end,
in this cherished refuge,
painted gold.
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