so strange

by
shines the whispers' lights, like dawn's beads,
festooning promptly, love's echo, seduced and
flung out from the neck of the sun's first thrill
poeticized by the zenith of an endless longing
thru a window's fissure of dreams' kitchenette

sings chic, the thoughts in the mind's boudoir,
using decency's taste, anointed in sin's crème,
fine impregnated in a strawberry aroma's tale
and cherry, adorned in tiny champagne collars
thru an enamored soul consumed with desire

dance the words on the canvas of the feelings
adjusted by the contour of eyes' colors palette,
like dawn's beads shine in the whispers' lights,
like the thoughts sing thru the mind's boudoir,
like the words dance on the canvas of feelings

thru a shining Monday to rouse Tuesday's voice
while Wednesday, so strange, allures the mood
because Thursday's a hot comrade of the Friday
that incites Saturday to inspire Sunday's dream
to be, chic while you kiss me in finesse of my sin

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