Your skin glows like an orange, blossoms ridiculous as the tulip in the purest hope of fall.
My heart follows your harp voice and leaps like a poodle at the whisper of your name.
I am comforted by your sock that I carry into the pen and hold next to my toe.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your toothbrushes of milk.
As my eye falls from my skirt, it reminds me of your wharf.
In the quiet, I listen for the last burp of the day.
My heated finger leaps from my shirt. I wait in the moonlight for your secret city so that we may
organize as one, in search of the magnificent red and mystical opera singer of love.
Picture taken from this site.
In the spirit of Madlibs- If you are interested, the poem was created here.
My heart follows your harp voice and leaps like a poodle at the whisper of your name.
I am comforted by your sock that I carry into the pen and hold next to my toe.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your toothbrushes of milk.
As my eye falls from my skirt, it reminds me of your wharf.
In the quiet, I listen for the last burp of the day.
My heated finger leaps from my shirt. I wait in the moonlight for your secret city so that we may
organize as one, in search of the magnificent red and mystical opera singer of love.
Picture taken from this site.
In the spirit of Madlibs- If you are interested, the poem was created here.
Copyright © 2010 by Natasha M.
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