Seven-Year Skin (for You, Birdfish)
You’ve got your train-track therapy:
You go to get away, but never to leave.
Is it just a reminder that there’s somewhere else?
That the climate is different in each circle of Hell?
I’ve got my alley-cat history.
I fed upon mice just to wear their fleas.
Is it a withdrawal of hope for the Wishing Well?
I threw all my coins and then threw myself.
You’ve got your bridge-bound flattery:
A dam to my river of polyamoury.
Is it the adhesive to my house-of-card health?
I will stray not passed the reach of your dinner bell.
I’ve got my looking-glass theophany.
god is not Love; Love is God, see?
Is it THIS cradle that rocks the ocean in seashells?
Both are baby and breast in circular wealth.
Both mother AND child!
Old lovers? Defiled!
Clean Slate, begin!
Like seven-year skin…
We’ve got our Minds’ Eyes open, free.
Parallel lines: I see you. And you: Me.
Is there fact in the fables that the fairies tell?
Our imaginations mastered the art of free will…
We’ve got our lip-locked luxury.
I wish we’d both throw away our keys…
Is it just the effect of some twitterpated spell?
No. We both caught each other as we both fell.
Both damsel AND knight!
We’re candles and kites!
New light and new wind.
Like seven-year skin…
