12/11/2006 21:58

Rosy Fauve

Such a canary glut signs

To the gravel path lain,

In bet is the signature drawn,

Of beauty not yet found.

The beauty is to be found tonight,

With full blossoms ripened in statue,

Whistling into the milky whiteness,

And as the glut of dawn is found inside,

Plastered likeness is pleasant fawn.

I am yet to see a cherry blossom,

But search it far and wide,

Oft wide expanse have I explored –

Yet never to wander down riverside.

Yearly praise comes and goes

With the tide of faucet blush,

Neurones pleasing never faeries

With presents of star intertwined.

Homer is there with isolated moon,

Bringing back the molten dew,

Yet never is he to find

The rose bushes of never land rose.

She was barren with cloth and mauve,

Never forgotten in a stride of night,

Yet she was scarce as a donkey,

Heartily as a mule, and yet never,

Not once before had she seen the star.

This specific star was jumbled and tumbled –

Weeded samples in a psyche new,

Yet never be twisted in pure frenzy,

To comprehend the eaten muse.

Such a scary pose have I been taught,

That now I must abandon,

For once tonight, the faery visit,

Returning to the pale brush.

She will sing her yearly praise in rose bush,

Never letting light onto verse unseen,

And she will let me lead the rose into light,

Letting me see the riverside.