There is a hazard to thinking your thoughts aloud
when slurping on tea.
The quick “by God” is soon regretted
as I struggle to stop my coughs from escaping;
better to choke to death than draw attention now?
It’s poetic. It’s coincidental. It’s a gift and a curse.
I’m in a haven of wonder, with eyes on the prowl.
To my left, and in front (who knows what’s behind),
the flight and the fancy,
I imagine it’s what dreams are made of,
but without the drunken courage of lucid dreams,
by which I mean the reckless abandon
that so often leads to sex or death;
caught in the middle-ground,
alive and aroused.
What now for this timid adoration?
It’d be easy to blame rules for non-action;
the passive but beating heart is well-trained in excuses.
Should I dare a whisper,
or a language-less approach?
These signs demand we linger,
and harbour all our words.