MY little BROWN BOOK

THE MINISTER (part two)

For a limited time only...

What is time my Love?

Time is how Mahogany monuments hold up 

after countless Days on pulpits.

Rest in a circle of goosed pillows and let me fan you,

I, your number one fan.

Let that be my reward and my punishment. 

Because the one who fans

cannot touch and I dream to crush so much.

Orchestrated through passages and verse 

I lend my voice to your composition

Please write and sing the story of Me and You...

You who severs my hope  with vibrated whispers

You who drowns me during Baptisms and Beheadings

You who tosses me bread crumbs on your retreats

You who pile-drives my bondage with tent stakes

You who lends me books in your camp while I freeze

You who warms the other monster in the woods

What is time my Love!

Time is a werewolf hidden in the moon

And I change with the seasons, your blood is in the air

I starve for fear of ever letting you cry what you owe

Stand still for a second more and let me trace your halo

Run faster for a moment and let me chase your corona

The thirst is unbearable Madam and I'm a madman because of it.

Because of you! 

I'm not too congealed that I can't quicken

or hear the hail of another Soul for I am Man made

And whilst you secure false passions on your way to nuptials

I live! I love! I give! I forgive! I lose! I last! and I ask!

What is time my Love?

It is a worm that digs underneath our nose and emerges 

when rain clouds go jogging in Buffalo or Germany

or North Carolina or Canada or New York 

or any other place we run to or from to escape this

sweet Serendipity that frolics in and out of our middle pages.

This page turner is not complete....

What is time my Love?

Time is a clever sex doll that requires no attention 

until loneliness ruins the fabric of genuine love.

So I've been preparing for the worst.

There's an aisle coming and rose petals will litter it.

I won't be there, it is after-all a suicide party 

if the wrong guest hears curses disguised as nuptials.

But I still hold out hope and dream about You...

You who prays when others laugh in luxury

You who summons the Angels with gold pennies and weird wishes

You who sings soprano and alto and tenor with perfect pitches

You who wrote me poems while engaged and cried afterwards

You who knows He's been untrue but must think me oblique

You who sees me in Her path but diverts when Autumn slows

What is time my Love?

Time is where the banished go.

And the banished will build you a home on a holm 

My hiraeth that I spareth no expense on and our condensed 

snow globe will sit and fit in a passion pit 

tucked away in a hallowed husk that blooms at dusk.

My Marvel, My Maiden, My Misery-killer, My Music, My Minister!

You were always worth the Wait........