Whose Site

You had good bones
Such good bones, boy

It’s that thought that found me
When you found me, boy

So I let you stay a while, sit a spell
Set a spell on me, boy

Marksman, Sharpshooter, Expert
Shoot, boy

You took aim
You took me, boy

Set your sights
But whose site is this anyway, boy

That needy, narcissistic arrow
Was not the way I needed you, boy

Repair

You’re not the tea type, to me. Ancient you aren’t.

You think you are. But I think you’re raspberry hot chocolate.

Take this endless cup. With my reckless invitation.

Delve. Repair into the wild, earthen past and the rich insanity ahead.

We, hot chocolates in hand, casting our cares. Setting a spell.

The Door

I mean for you to become as the ether
Where I, with unwilling wings
Content not to soar, reach
Or grasp
Dance in the green, green grass

I cast a spell upon your senses
Where I, with unyielding heart
Serenity’s scent on my smile
And your ears straining
Sing and you’ll not taste a note

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