Desire

Green lines arrow accross
the sky
searing through th epinks
and
purples
In the early moning I
think of this Vorbodden
What kind of place is it
Here where the sight
glazes over producing
a loss of observation skills
Whial loves play (sometimes) happily
My head rests
its case
Reality thumbs through it's little
black book
inducing my reocuring dreams
Ones that I can never remember
about the blotted out past
or hazy future
Passions arise in the heart
and I can almost taste
the salt on your skin