The Answer

Creating fireflies
between the
leaves of time,
I stop to consider
your eyes.

I swear that deep within us,
tangled in the
chains of memory,
lies a dark answer
to the bric-a-brac
of thought.

It stirs
like a panther
uncurling in
the jungles of night.

If lightning would streak
the skies of our lives,
if dawn would
mix her colors
in the small dish
of our hopes,
we would be

The dull moths
of our days
would fold
their mottled wings
and die.

Oh temperance,
murderer of the
wild dreams
of children,