In the storm’s eye,I meditate in the still,Firmly grounded in peace.
The first robin sings,Early morning signs of spring,Hope after winter.
A fine feathered fern,Dared to brush against her hand,Drawn to her warm skin
“Marry me,” he said.“I can’t. I have no heart,”She said in despair.
Nothing to see here,Shards of human tragedy,Scattered to the wind.
Going to church on chrome,Cuts, flying colors and old ink,Leathers, patches and speed.
Tequila Sunrises,Dress in the ethereal light,Dance elegantly