You could be one of those photographed babes,

But need no mascara nor powder to debase

And insult the lines of the white rabbit face

That seems to peek out of a mound of snow, agape

At some wild, blundering, comical statement

I made to rouse your serene amusement

To feed my pitiful, pathetic, sick hunger

Of seeing laughter play for a second

In a semblance of loving affection

Around your heaven-fruit face, and gaze, in wonder.

Through my forced rhymes I am barely able

To sketch a crude charcoal outline of the clear,

Sheer, silent purity that appear

Dirtied preceded by adjectives purple.

Now the point proven through the futile attempt,

My sorry abilities do not exempt

My erupted heart, shivering from the shock,

From gathering its outpourings and try to make sense of

The sensibility sleeping like a dove,

Glowing beneath your tenuous smock.

But could I ever grasp that mirage reality

With clean hands? Or will it loom in the horizon

Over my desert mind, alluring poison,

To cure my fervent for complacency?

An ode to you is like an ode to the air,

Though the poet holds in him much meaning and care

Unexpressed through his impetuous hand under which

Lies the frail friendship, on the edge of the cliff

Of delusional love, over which awaits death stiff

And certain--

Better preserve this sad, aching friendship

and count myself rich.