Matters of Reason and Heart

There is this man In patterned shirt, perfectly ironed without creases Where turquoise and gold tear the cloudy sky Sitting in the concrete castle. One cannot iron out the scars of the artist. Artists do not go slowly like turtles but soar and dive in wild, unrestrained dance listening to trees and wind and rain. Artists embrace, and burn with passion and float among the rainbows, clouds and fluffy little bunnies. The man holds the thin red string that grounds the artist. Artist will throw him on the bed, untucking his shirt forming creases and ripples, Artist will blow raspberries on man's lower stomach and tickle his inner thigh Artist will allow him in her depths Artist will call him imzadi and sleep on his coarse chest hair Artist will want him to stay Matters of reason and heart will clash And streams of salty water will form waterfalls. The reality will shatter like broken glass. Home for the artist is with the man in perfectly ironed shirt without creases.