cascade this blade of light
sharpening the eyes
your stare finds me
through the thicket
and dream wicket

How you lead me
transfixed through resolutions
of moods and emotions

how far i travel
shadowlands
you find me with
a look a call

the delicate footfalls
behind me in my
labyrinth halls

to lean against
an arm
and feel this
soft length hair

alive like the worlds
winter wonder
in the morning
arctic air

By Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village though
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake

an arras of
coloured droplets in living water
stretching through eternity
opposite
synchronous
intricately and intractably intertwined

each whole a portion of
individual
undivided entirety
winking in and out
quickly, ineffably
weaving
freezing, as

unable to keep fast a single moment
thoughts and deeds
even while being processed and consummated
have elapsed
become

Look at my pecker, it's erect
standing proud and tall
it has quite a startling effect
if it's seen at all

And it has a dark red head
much more red than most
(oh yeah, I named my pecker Fred)
Fred's most startling I must boast

He likes to plunge into tight holes
he plunges in then plunges out
all ins and outs demand high tolls
for he must, in doing, remain stout