I’m not
So high
That I
Can’t see
My
Soul
Lift off
In
Front of
Me; smoke
Roses in
Love’s
Garden; it
Rises, though
Unleavened;
Takes
Flight, in
Spite of
Bear hug
Arms, to
Separate the
Heartfelt
Charms of
Blood-warped
Thoughts from
Systole
Beats, till
Minds become
Alarmed.

rjw, 11/18/02