Omnivorous Dreams

Her posters, her 8x10s, the dreams I make of her beauty.

Icons of something made perfect by a tempestuous heart.

In my cramped room, laying in my bed, as winter comes.

I might sew angels wings yet, from the thread of my desire.


Overwrought power ballads on video tributes on YouTube.

The omnivorous dreams of her light hearted screen presence.

I am here in the cold grey of November, she is up in Barbados.

I can still find a light of innocent love, looking at her on screen.


People in my life seem close and distant, love me, but I am here

in my room most of the time, and they aren’t comrades, ride or die.

The sugary rush of dreams of a beautiful one, blessed and posh, whole.

I let this dream and passion, distant and perfect, fill me in this cold November.

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