At the touch;

“At the touch of LOVE,

everyone becomes a POET“

Through the window-glass;
Moonlight traces out
the scars of old
ergo; the mind wanders
into the distant twinkle
of yonder. What star;
what planet could comprehend
the magnitude of scourge;
or the platitude of ache.
In the terroir
of jeu blanc; mon amour.
Inevitably, the
Meursault butters my throat;
fly: to the endscapes
of beyond.
Indescribable, quillfeather-break;