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Under the indigo-blue light
Of a moon hung from a black night
Passion fills and feeds on us,
A cannibal emotion
Intertwined like tangled vines,
We are spheres on steep declines,
We are tumbleweed on a dirt road
Where outlines line the floor in chalk
Felling the downs like lumberjacks
Our parity stops monsters in their tracks;
Wearing plaid between the trees
We walk the streets from twelve to three
And while waiting is what I do worst,
Waiting is what I'd do first
If it led to that holy land
Where we eternally hold hands,
Where we can kiss the night away,
Where beautiful days forever stay
And we, are tumbleweed
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Author's Note: Although this isn't specifically about this poem, I thought I'd mention that I'm working on putting most of the poems I've written in the past 3-4 years into a book. I found a website that lets you publish for free, so I plan to do that and then buy it so I can have my poems in a nice book with some pictures I put in myself. I'm not sure how long it'll take to actually get done, but I have all the poems in order and I'm just working on formatting the pages right so it'll work how it should. (There are about 120 pages and about 95 poems). If anyone would be interested in buying it let me know so I can tell you when it's ready. I'm not sure yet, but it'd probably cost from $10-15.
P.S. The book will be called "The Last Romantic"
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