He was the first man that I loved.
He thought that his heart was dying, perpetually.
That a thousand sunshine’s would die in his favor.
That the moon would cry and die and thus not bring the moon shine, that swoon the trees over with its own shadow.
“Oh, the lunatic humor of the moon”. *
That the day would never bring out the green.
That the breath would be forever in vain.
That the black eyes would forever look upon him, with disaster being a priority.
That the places he would visit would never equal his dreams.
That the path was too tumultuous to be his.
That the swans would have gone wild before nightfall.
That it was all just a dream.
Old man with guitar, Pablo Picasso
* From Nightwood by Djuna Barnes
~ by Aquatic Poetry on April 20, 2009.