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Weekend Plans

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You have eyes filled

With Friday evening's fire

Saturday afternoon's intention

And Sunday morning's confession

Eyes

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Drifters

Words keep hanging out Down at the end of the line But there's no train at the station And no one is keeping time They sit there in their solitude With no where else to be The words all become drifters Just like this heart in me

The Sweetest Death

Your poison berry So red and ripe Yearning to be picked Tempting to be tasted Knowing it ends in death Still I put you in my mouth

Open Invitation

My legs fall apart at the very thought of you An open invitation For you to come inside

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Weekend Plans

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