Irony And Wine

Teach me how to breath again,

so that I may choke my own reflection
through the water with my eyes and watch it drown in
metaphor,

wake me when answers come crashing down like
angry tides that swallow hearts of gullible lovers,

and I'll be ready by then, with voice and pen
until nature deals me the fools card and I'm
stranded on an island of one,

composing music on my arms in hand drawn lines
that look like staffs with treble heartbeats,

while rainstorms wash away my words that were
once notes serenading the winds of a midsummer
masterpiece,

I'll count down the days through my eyelashes,
and wait for a chair to drop down by parachute,

sitting with my ankle resting on thigh,
contemplating the day my words wash up on some foreign land


by way of empty bottle, reborn through the eyes of a
musician reading my note in a curious musing,

using my material to translate
her own interpretation of a woman lost in thought,

until the air fills its lungs with song and I fade
into a folk tale as an escape artist,

lulling a strayed town to sleep.