It was actually rode during the bustling day,
same old obsession strapped between three meals,
witnessing everything in a romantic slow motion,
as them clouds and angels cheer on your love.
Joined forever above to judge, yet remain invisible,
diving through the excess moisture of past lives,
where loneliness is only experienced by others,
crying aloud while you always quickly gain altitude.
You don’t carry their pathetic shroud of tears,
for love is with each heart completely equal,
before you both reluctantly start to retire,
upon that holy altar, open like a tasty banquet.
How you wish both could rise across every house,
waking any neighbor since we’re all now related,
to see things close enough to the same thinking,
feeling them stings from the angry bees in our roses.
Singing in them bars about blood on their lawns,
high for their odd toast and spraying most in the air,
falling as confetti for grateful kids just beginning,
done prior to their pumpkin pie with whipped cream.
Tight on a saddle over their snail’s fragile back,
drunk with a dimming lantern burning your uniform,
ready to sign us in totality away for a cup of tea,
then early to bed, obeying your blessed command.
Sharwrong's Song 