Poems ✍️

Drenched assumptions were all we had.
It was alright, she said,
for umbrellas to be panaceas,

where tears reverberated
vociferously: a dark evening
never shows itself fully.

Its gotten gray and hopefully
peaceful. I won't refuse to
seek dryness in your sexy flat,

but I'll follow to all points
mute; ignoring the drama
of panes under attack.

My own clouds form. Roofs are
slanted like opinions:
just the right amount of strength,

as I love the cut of yours,
your skin, the screen upon which
David Lynch films are viewed,

decidedly surreal, if one fears
the residue of joy, because
someday, joy may die like diffident plants.