Misfortune drifts, or expands toward a mayhem
that can mess you up, push you sadly around.
It's not something to dwell upon. I was fortunate
to ponder the evening's lucid attire, the vestige
of light. Mine was a living largely made of longing
for an ability you aptly possess—your gift exists
as a distraction I wander through as if real life:
the sun was red; the moon was gray; the sky
was love felt in the sleeves of your dress—darkened,
no, harbored as if by a lover's anxious hand. This
evening's fortune was to be blessed with fairies
where, for a moment out of kindred respect, you
diminish.
[ rdking.net ]