Diaphanous and iridescent wings carry me
Rapidly, high and low, or leisurely
Across realms of suave poesy and
Ghastly, all too pestilent despair.
Oh, my spindly, brilliant body does mend
Neatly my anil icon of brittle life affair!
Flying my time away, with giddy impulse,
Lullabies of others I filter in my tumid glare.
Yours is saddest when I kiss your palm’s pulse.
P.S. A writer’s pen-holding palm is the fountain of their mutable oeuvre. A human’s heart-side palm is the betrayer of their tormented pulse.