He sits and he writes
What he feels, what
he wants to feel.
What he needs, what he thinks--
what he longs to be real. The whims, pains, ecstasies, fears--
All things left unsaid--
in the corners of his heart,
in the interstices of his mind.

In the corners of his heart
sits the woman of his dreams,
who makes it pound out of his chest
and tear at the seams.
She dances round in her carousel.
Her song, her secret he knows so well.
She eases his pain,
his cleansing rain,
his sunrise.

In the corners of his heart
there is a flame dancing, gasping
for oxygen and the splendid sun.

He longs for his love to take him
away--out on the road, into
the wild blue and green and gold--
running with the wind and
their heart-strings' tune.

In the corners of his heart
lies the promise of forever
and the gift of tiny fingers
and toes.
To share this love, watch it grow
and giggle and hiccup and coo and cry--
Oh, the hope, the promise, the
joy of forever.

In the corners of his heart,
In the interstices of his mind,
he prays for a bruit's strength.