My Drawing Man

My Drawing Man

In the season of marigolds her love

Is to the clouds and beyond, as he

Leaves her no choice but to spot

Him for a safe haven; then how

Can she loll or even just close

Her orb when all she descries

Is her oasis whenever she is

Relenting, whenever her blink

Whispering, her glimmer ebbing

Away, whenever she is easing off;

Is there discord, distress in the tenor

Then why does she feel that offhand

Bond as if all the planet is conniving

To couple her with her weather vane,

Her subliminal lamp, giving her soul

Kisses behind the scenes, on the quiet.

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