What
can become of feelings plotted, never Gaussian?
like
dreams scattered and popping
the
only time I see flowers ,
are
when the words turn into doilies
covering
me like my red wool blanket
but
leaving my hands and feet
dangling
loosely like willows in my bed
and
at times I begin to wonder
on
when will that love permeate
why
words dissolve before its utterred
with
the idea of those dreams becoming so potent
that
my mind will begin to stray
far
from where I am right then
a
relatively short distance from your chest
What
can become of feelings, never Gaussian?
as
one struggle to keep the margins
safely
intersecting the thoughts
of
what could be and what could not
in
my sorrows and heaps of sigh
tantrums
and wishes benign
where
could this point land
down
and up the slope,
but
never Gaussian...