Being not so green fingered
as others seem everyone...

I think of it often when walking
the responsibility that lies therein...

....thin ice is the tip of
such an iceberg Freud would stammer...

About the age of things of
me and you i guess...

When feigning composure and normality
y'know the fakeness of oneness that's plague...

Sunlight's rays are silver now,
not easy golden as before...

Go quietly then you'll find no barking,
sneak from hill to ditch eyes lowered...

The Moons not your gravity,
no that's just a theory...

She's whispering inside my blinks,
strobe images of wanton'ness...of the 'ess...

The white sheet upon a shape,
limitless in mystery...