...V...deux

spent
like last week's paycheck
on cigarettes and dollar menu items
can't even look at myself on account of the dark circles
and oily hair
the television's burnt out
the liquid crystal is toast
and the smell of plastic rises out
in a welcoming draft of warmth
if not for the smell
I would enjoy it

but
you are passion's fruit
like it cannot be obtained
by any means within me
since distance is demanding rule
and I've no power
to change it

and
you but stare at words
and cull over them briefly
there's not much there i know
though I long beyond all
that there could be

and
my headache is richly deserving
the mark at the end of bad poem
rolled out much like sickening velvet
in garish red lights
I dreaded as
a child

but
there's you, real in its intent,
though aloft like golden fruit
once spoke of in the papyrus of the Greeks
before their library blew up in flames
(by passion?)

and
the light in your eyes could
rebuild the Colossus of Rhodes
and restore its glory as there's you:
a goddess from the gates of Parnassus
or the green of early spring on Rodna
the exhalation you make in the air
that I would melt for
the stars would be the happy chorus
watching o'er
the Muses watch over you
V