Water runs too deep
When it's still.
You are made of fireworks,
Lava and candid cameras.
You are made
Of extra-rare books,
You are made of amber
And small languages to remember.
You are a social construct to me,
A human being to some,
A vague idea to hundreds thousands of people.
2016.
A wrong address.
Incense.
Incentives.
2019.
A real address.
A solar maximum.
A punch into someone's solar plexus.
In between -
Days, nights,
Roads,
Documents,
Unanswered calls,
A bumpy ride.
I'm not attractive
But my world is refined.
Can you be redefined?
Come back
As a formula
Dictated to me in my sleep.
Find as keepers,
Lose as wheepers,
On a way to a hill
So steep.
