fool4luv

On the twentieth day of July 69, For the first time in history, The moon landed on a man. The first time such move had been attempted by a celestial body, A great feat of precision, Didn't crush the man at all. You see, we see things from our eyes, And everyone knows our eyes see upside down. Or is that the right way up? I could tell you about walking through deserts, The beauty of running water, of rain, You'd be thinking of TV shows. When was the last time you were challenged, Walked away from a conversation stunned. Who are you listening to, me or yourself? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Is meaning in the eye of t

[What the stars tossed, salt-casual, onto the not-black of the not-night suggest could be love, but I can't read them.] This is not a love poem,                        not-love, a not-love poem. Falling waist deep into February             stomping the signatures of lost years             in footprints on the pristine present-             this, not-night has become electric             with memories smashing through             the thin ice of teenage alchemy,                    charged, with the possibility of                                  heartache,                                            frostbite,             or even