This secret language of flowers,
this hidden vocabulary;
the colour that a word empowers,
to paint a stem from you to me.

If, by artful pollination,
floriography can flow,
communing in that old notation,
parlance then, will let me know.

In nursing this covert oration,
the yellow rose should slowly show;
or, bloom blackened by dark negation,
the last and lonely rose might grow.

It’s Tuesday and I gotta mount that colt.
The groundwork’s not gone well~ he tends to bolt.
But I been paid and gotta get it done.
We need no more than walk…don’t wanna run.

He’s cinched up slow as always. That’s our way.
The greenhorns think he only wants to play.
They point with greenhorn fingers while they laugh
when flips his damn, fool head like some giraffe.

You used to say, "I am not
an alcoholic." But I can tell
by the looks of that glass, you were
definitely searching for something.

Something I guess you couldn't find
being a husband to mom. Something
not in the joys of fatherhood. And nothing
found, after your tenth can of beer.

Did you ever stop to think, you
should have left the search with God?
Get up out of the Thunderbird, and
get down on your knees to pray.

I'm fairly content in my place,
things go mostly well for me
and there's hardly any trace
of what I potentially could be.

I keep myself behind strong walls
which keep the world from breaking in
and mutes potential when it calls.
I hear it but turn back within.

But at times I trace the bounds
by walking around long wall's girth
and think about those beckoning sounds
and what else there might be on earth.