like the leech
whose water’s been disturbed

distorted from the norm
with a ripple of a wave

it’s an unconscious attatchment
with no devious scheme behind

naive almost teenaged-drawn advances
meant to tease the words forward
from her entangled entombment

she ebbs tidal rhythms
the moon is to blame for the orbital turbulance
as it is for the worship of the seductress
who comes out only for companionship’s touch

she’s just looking for a nocturnalist

a writer of the people of the dark

_________________________________© dld 09.06.07


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