Childscaped Breaths

Breathe some romance into me, petals putting on thick paint. Turn it on, stream inside until I flood the room more than sly and subtle words. Intuition and shadow melting smoke, light stroking silver, I would have your eyes withdrawn from voice to regard the choice of a small child. The bird come through her window, thorn bushes illuminated by moonlight, the owl of her-in-me in meditation harkened back to ''deja vu'' textures, time-missing dreams she lived on. When the land sang on a clear day in "someday's" Scotland, to wilds that jutted out to sea, landscapes like coded fingers strummed more and more real, the longer I hummed with them. Brushing her hues through the almost-like-now, all worlds struck crimson and magentas and lush for what I hushed, what I wished I could be. Other layers of possibility, roaming gypsy of tribes of saints, poets, singers and image makers bigger than all things, seemingly falling away now, to time. Rhyme voyeur renderings of me, bathed in paint's All-seeing eyes. Inside my hints of peach perfume, run renegade licks of naked wisteria romancing what should be, Love, rising to its most creative breath, always painted most alive.