Spoonfuls

Here I am,
standing stupid,
writing spoonfuls of poetry about
your thighs.

The sillhouettes that ramble
deaf,
hardly dumb,
slightly more blind,
away from the resonant soul of one man.
They recognize a bravery
in play and
joy and
the taking in of
mind altering substances.
What they don’t see is the whisp
of words that hangs in the air obove their heads,
so still,
yet moving all it touches.

We sillhouettes,
the waltzing wonders of a
generation that taught
attentiveness at a youth
too filled with self-love to care
much.

But like all brave generations
before us,
we have our rebels,
our soul seekers,
our wise sages,
the individauls whose bodies
seem to house a person much older than themselves.

and here I am,
standing stupid,
writing spoonfuls of poetry about
your thighs.

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