You are acoustic as the steam,
accusive as the thirst,
but a prince on a horse,
in this dream.

There's a baby crying, her mother is
eighteen and stoned.
I need a ride home.

The music is loud,
I'm too fragaile for this.
I miss your paintings.
Sketches of unicorns when you were six.

You are nothing less than beautiful,
snug inside of me.
While they roll another joint.
I dispirit the night by politely, squarely declining.
I've switched into a yellow reality,
no open windows.
Nobody talk to me now, unless
you're reading me a fairytale.
Taking me to the country,
with cornstalks and bright stars.

You must have a bottle of whiskey
somewhere in that trunk
you've bolted up.

Our escapee, one of many.
I'd carry you if I could.
I'd carry the whole world.
On my back with such tremendous strength,
and rythm of the wild you ride.

07/18/2005

Posted on 08/01/2005
Copyright © 2025 Kimberly Rhode