220

Let me be direct. I'll never lose hope

in that which my heart and mind know as true–
you could bind my hands together with rope,
and I'd still send fragrant flowers to you:
Each petal is a letter unsent;
the fragrance is the aura of healing
that I broadcast towards the heavens unbent,
like green stems grasping straight for the ceiling:
I sent a prickly thorn through the ether,
after which I will only send vibes
that will crawl like vines so as to wreath her,
I mean you, in your most maidenly clothes:
The waves will come back eventually;
I'll have faith in that fact so long that I be.
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