dereliction that taunts,
in the glass of red wine
at the end of the line
where the tram simply stops
you are there, in the shops
and in church, at the stadium
always glowing like radium,
and you’re looking at me
I look back, I can see
that your spirits are high
and a lone butterfly
shall pursue you at speed
and catch up when indeed
there is silence to hear
and sweet words for your ear.
May all whispers return
as an echo’s own yearn.
As I see you at night
with both eyes closed so tight
I can hear you as well
please come closer and tell
what I’ve heard countless times
like those nursery rhymes.
I can hear, I can see
and I know you are there,
we can never be free
you and I are the heir
of a cloverleaf gene
and we follow the script
of this rather pristine
aberration that’s tipped
to defy destiny.
And in pleasure it dwells
as it struggles to free
from its hard coral shells
both their souls so they share
touch and hearing, and sight
and the pleasure to dare
what is naturally right.