Sky of Sixty-Seven Roses

Cotton-driven.

Impossible like a warm skyline.

The paradox within you and me
strikes against the moon and the moon

is tempting the waves,

the waves lick the sand and as I lay there I was a loon.

Aloof and a loner inside the Sky of Sixty-Seven Roses.

I see you (softly)

there is a shadow and a light to you,

divine and whole in my own terms.

a blasphemy to your own terms

seduced by white air across your warm native land.

But all in all I will have spring inside

when you carry yourself

blossoming

by the thunder

and saying: "you are gold to me

inside the Sky of Sixty-Seven Roses."