rythmic tongues
wagging constellations
on your porcelain
collarbone

searching for
a source
to get home
through your red
pages:
i let my fingers
do the w a l k i n g

this casual thing
s p i r a l i n g into
a series of cataclysmic
>raptures<
making me
a casualty

freedom is the
drug sold
to those who can't make
a choice
so here is mine:

threethreethree words
will plant me

here

where our tree
will BLOSSOM
tearing through
the sidewalks
of fear

speak
and ye
shall bind

alexandre arnau

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/speak-2/