The game
A connotation
Of sectarians
Doing intervisitations
In oscillating
And transparent dreams,
Making a connection
Between
Bordering lands
And looking for a
Peace pact.
Love is fun
Like trivia quizzes,
Old books, refined and intact,
Tactlessly, cluelessly
Remotely refined
Keys to ad libs
Under our ribs -
Women grow out of men
Like hip hop
Grows out of jazz,
Like gospel grows on you
When you're cynical
And have no one to pray for,
When you seem to be too old for the game
Until someone hunts you down.
Your resurrection
Is an invention
Of new forms of cognition,
Control and respectful
Revelation,
A moment in which
Resilience to
Surveillance
Becomes a vigilant trend.
I ask for permission to land
On the darkest moon of your heart,
Wishing to explore its resources.
Maybe it's even right
Your intellect is too bright an issue
For translucid publicity,
Your charm is too realistic
To be perceived as part of the
Cultural landscape.
Your eloquence
Is like an inescapable
Landslide,
With topics omitted,
Denied and then
Refurbished with grace and style.
Could we dwell on each other for a while
Without becoming too messy and inconvenient?
Your chillingly hot look
Is so fabulously resilient.
