Gold-Leaf Decisions
9.14.06

Shelve these canned emotions, packaged
in distant ages. Return them to the godly store
you stole them from. You are no
saint, preaching genius to me
with practiced blanks. My brilliance
as you shined it once, polishing the name
with your credentials to an open jury
of my peers, needs a mirror.
You are just cruel enough to reflect
my musical meanderings, to send them spiraling
through a tunnel of anything but love, in which
they shed everything but what they ought to be.
Jaunting across our personal Europe
is the perfect peach, always at the crest of the tree,
I am not selfish,
not kind, enough to tell you myself.
So, this page is naked, not in your sight but mine,
hoping the wind carries you here, here, here, and
you see my genius as it was meant to be seen.
Shaped by you. Meant for you.