Infantile

To see something so pure,

How could this child possess any form of sin?

She follows, with you alone atop her stage

It doesn’t matter the task at hand

Her vision never wavers from you

Every minute detail contains the mystery of life,

And her infatuation soon infects you too,

Giggling and speaking in the strangest of language

The most mundane routines

Are the pinnacles of comedy, where laughter is loud, long and deep,

The love of being is everywhere with this one

Everything is a special present

And she wants it all, to taste, to feel, to touch

To think she shall become just as jaded

That she’ll become corrupted like the rest

But with infants, this is exactly one of the things

That makes them so perfect,

They are symbolic of hope,

A hope this tiny person will be the one to rise above it all,

With the widened lips and puffy cheeks,

With the sparkling of those little eyes,

In her that hopes remain alive.

The Passion Of A Stolen Kiss

Five past the cauldron’s boil,

Through curdled clouds on an onyx canvass colored sky,

Spy I might with but one eye closed,

The smell of charcoal, the sense of fear,

But it’s through my fingers that which should not be witnessed is revealed,

Dreams awakened through rudimentary means,

The sort forced upon us at an early age,

It’s ten past consumptions point and a decision must be made,

Wicked brew comingling from tongue to belly,

Seconds flat to feel its crude, yet wonderfully subtle snake-like smile,

A charming upon the inner child,

Smart and shiny, crumpled in a tiny ball,

Over the shoulder, the shawl I throw,

Out with the darkness and above goes the cold and snow,

Shackles unbound, tonight we fly,

 Free as gypsies, empowered like thieves,

Travel we will, in caravan, over the plains of time,

Unfettered wishes abound this eve,

Through the stars and over the trees,

The glimmer in the corner of that woman’s eye,

Deliberate yet charming, a magnification of someone mesmerized,

As thunder meets lightning, that initial time, a passionate roar of the wild roaming lion,

Mane freely flowing as its pride evades, a coveting swarm of enamored bees,

Territorially, tonight we claim, that song, playing over moonlight, in the midnight breeze.