wicked words of speech
drooling down her cheek
the atrocities of war
never quite compare to the way she dyes her hair
and she chases me
through a mirrored maze
neither knows enough to care
about the tragedies happening up there
we run and run and run
while the rivers turn red
until she pulls up a chair
tells me we should help the lads with prayer
down on my knees
she towers over me
strokes my face so fair
hands me a ripened pear
her love so juicy
seasons: a poetic journey 