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.