29 inches high

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Do not forsake my skin there

And fail to suffer my intellect here

Share with me the musings of men’s minds

The notions that so keenly captivate their thoughts 

Yet never escape their lips 

Except to hide behind polite banter, as if I cannot sense 

Something’s just not-quite-right

If idealists and purists we be, I count on you

Set the truth free

Cover Me

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Oh to be
The skin exposed 
Near cashmere coverings

Its defiant dare
Can draw the stare
And tempt the mind of things

But that which waits
Beneath the warmth
And silently bids “come”

Is the skin 
I wish to wear;
For whose dream-er I drum