April 27, 2010
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Does she sing for the dead night sky,
And the congregation of ravens beneath?
Or is it the flickering stars
That catch her streaking hymn?

Does she sing for the dead grass garden
That perks to life to hear her voice?
Or is it the blue jay's chirping melody
That lend its hand to hers?

Does she sing for the marble grave
To please the dead beneath the soil?
Or does she sing for the redeeming ivy
That curls across forgotten names?

Does she sing to invoke the spirits
And the remnants of times so far gone?
Or does she sing to reminisce herself
And snare her thought in steady tempo?

Does she sing for her own white beauty
And the porcelain way her skin lay
To catch the starlit glow
Like candlelight on coloured glass?

Or does she sing for the light of the sun
That gleams against her mirrored eyes?

Will she wail to the low-skied moon
So that these restless dreams will pass?
Or hum to life these wayward thoughts
That gather in our youthful minds?

Will her song wipe from the sun's eyes
Those strife-born tears that swell
And tumble broken hearts into space below?

My lover dances in two-tone step
With a cheerful gaze and her two-tone pep,
She takes my hand and guides my feet
And holds me 'gainst the steady beat.

Her body pressed so tight to mine
Lips meshed together with saliva shine
As lust and love form one fine line
The feel of those lips are so divine.

My girl can twirl and she can dance
Her gliding hips have forced this trance,
I can't so much as form my stance;
My girl can twirl, my girl can dance.

A hand against her lucid skin
Our melded lips are locked in sin;
They press upon my fragile heart
That she claimed hers right from the start.

But her lips are silent within my presence
Within my soul I feel her essence
Yet still her secrets, locked to me
And how I yearn to set them free,
So I search at length for the rusted key;
Yet still her secrets, locked to me.

Do you hear her sing behind locked doors,
Where the ghosts will wander but nothing more?
And hear her glide on the moonlit sky
Her tempo, her wings that make her fly?

Can you tell me how she sings to the moon,
And how listeners around all swing and swoon?
Will you show me this beauty locked to me;
And not the shell that I can see?

Describe to me what lay in her mind;
And what she hides beneath her rind.
Show me, at last, her inner shell,
Its contents heavens or contents hell.

At end, I own her touch and skin
And her soul that bends, as soft as tin;
Her lips and eyes are mine to kiss
Yet something remains so far amiss.

She's given me her heart and brain,
She holds me here against the rain
And shares with me her common pain;
She's given me her heart and brain.

She tells me of this strengthened love
And dreams below and dreams above,
She soars around, my pretty dove
Whose flight I start with brutal shove.

My God, I long for the unknown voice
In which I flourish, in which I rejoice,
but since we've touched, it's been so long:
All I ask for is her song.

And she sings for the low-skied moon!
And she wails for the high-skied sun!
She hums for clouds and stars
And the birds and the garden:
She sings for the living and the dead,
She sings for those she loves and hates.
She sings for those like and unlike her
And she sings mirrors in her listener's minds--

But God, oh, Gods, why does she not sing for me?

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