The Drama And Dirt Road

I don't want to make a scene.

But right now, it seems the only way to be seen.

This is how I see things:

Pink and hot.  First with haze.

Dreamy and green.  Jealous and Empty.

Forgotten.

This is how I see me.

We are a rose garden.  We are sensual and all sensation.

Smell me, touch you, feel and laugh and

Can't remember our unconscious joy.

She drowns me in my doubt.

She is pure color blurred together before my eyes.

But she can be no more:

Because she is the same as I,

Because she is not more to mine.

Only I and my love are our own poison;

Only I am my own cure.

Who gave to sight only the future?

Wisdom isn't far and over horizons.

And eyes know only what they've already seen.

His sight has never found a need

To ask and see

Me. 

All I need to be free.

Those friends I read,

They hide in leaves.

My joy inside would not be recognized by thieves

Who can't read, beneath.

That is my pride. 

My dream and fear:

Love can never come to those who plead.

She and he will be lovers aside

From my pride.

They will not hide.

So how can I -

Whether they have eyes to see -

Be anything but this dirty road,

Where the overgrown greens

Barely let the boarders show.

He could never collect dust here.

She certainly never will have shoes to bare

The footprints I will carve.

And with those wild and overgrown things,

The patterns I will forge with forks and dreams,

If the dust never settles,

The dirt never clears,

The green never dulls,

And the civilized road never appears.

Through my eyes my soul will see,

The most glorious, fantastic, rebirthplace of me.