I wanna marry a poet.
Yeah, a poet.
One who picks the ripest clouds From the blue.
One who selects
The most lush leaves
Of the rain forest.
Covered with morning dew
Clinging on delicate necklaces
Sown by the spiders.
They are long-legged dancers, Silently doing deadly pas de deux's With the flies.

I wanna marry a poet.
Yup, a poet.
One who views sadness and suffering In the eyes of an animal,
A hungry wolf.
One who lets screams
Penetrate and rip the hearts of People.
One who turns heavenly fabrics
Into the scratchiest sandpaper.

I wanna marry a poet.
Yes, a poet.
One who creates
These worlds that I can view
Only once, when I read them.
The world freezes like ice,
And I can look
At a new world.

That poet,
He is the cloud cycling
Around the fresh, new Earth,
Slowly drifting,
All the time in the universe.
He is the dewdrops on the leaves.
Bulging globes of earthly ambrosia, But fragile as glass.
He is the spider
awaiting his lover,
His life-supply,
His lifelong companion,
His dinner.

I wanna marry a poet.
He is the famished wolf.
He is the scythe that killed
And ripped your heart out,
And the sandpaper
That could skin you alive.

So why do I want to marry this man,
When his head is so emerged
In the clouds,
That he knows not of what goes on
In this most tangible life?