There are days of preoccupation,
where sadness wends it willowy way,
lashing and gashing with rippling power,
weeping from roots of irony,
traipsing its bittersweet allure,
while falling into darkened pools
of remorseful proclivity.

There are hours of procreation,
where inspiration reels in flowery array,
reaching and grasping with enabling power,
laughing from limbs of design,
trilling its honeyed genesis,
while sailing into opened seas
of delirious proclivity.

There are minutes of prosecution,
where angst nurtures its fruited prey,
leaping and leering with destructive power,
shouting from trunks of stricture,
trapping its frenetic disposition,
while balling into dirtied puddles
of acrimonious proclivity.

There are moments of proposition,
where birth salutes its crowned bouquet,
believing and offering with unmitigated power,
proclaiming from heightened summit,
trailing its cataclysmic nature,
while flailing into fluid rivers
of humanistic proclivity.

Erin Moen
6/18/03
Copyright 2003 ©