Friday, 5 August 2011

Shooting Stars

Wandering around Odd Down in the early hours,
With a bottle of cheep cider and a bottle of sourz,
You are naked, I am clean, a silver sheen
Smothers us from the stars.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and the one
Who holds me is so beautiful, I told him too,
So there is no room left inside of me
For any inclination of you.

But now I wish upon a breeze because there
Are no stars left to hear my pleas, and please
Don't be afraid for we are creatures made
For not-so secret pleasures it seems.

The sky reflects the street's golden moans
Of unsavory street lamps and traffic cones,
The light refusing to wilt and die
Like that twinkle in your eye.

No comments:

Post a Comment