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Ants and Pie
Last night I dreamt of you and I...
and silly things, like apples (fried);
picnics composed of ants and pie
and getting food stuck in your eye
Mozart must have rolled again
Even though he's six feet under
when we played our best for him...
Poor piano; torn asunder
On the ground, side by side;
pointing out the soaring stars
we received by awkward flight
from horse to ground; fast and hard
You tickled me; I pulled your hair
You pinched my arm; i kicked your shin
we fought a while, then gasped for air;
But every bruise is worth a grin
Last night I dreamt of you and I...
and pleasant things, like broken ties;
Until once more our love's denied
By the fear you hold inside
such a terrible concept. i must admit, i am captive of that fear as well. or.. i have been. otherwise, this poem is like a magic carpet ride.