and stories and stories and stories...

Sing softly in the quiet of bokeh blurs,
My sweet and precious home.
Wrap me tangled,
wrap me mangled,
in the grey-grey of your floors
and I will dance and weave my arms
around and upside down
through fibers and fibers and fibers
in the most boisterous of fashions,
a Madonna, the new kind.
My eyes can't hold these stories
any more than coffee cup rims
can hold his kisses;
Awaken me, senses
with soft sauces and butters
that melt slowly
and leak,
let us dance again;
while the overcast stares menacingly
wrap me tangled,
wrap me mangled,
in the grey-grey of your floors
and I will sing a love song
for all my broken bones
for all the places my skull can't reach
for the thousand pieces of poetry that
play their way home,
I will sing.
Though my hands are cracked and battered,
I still pray for open skies
and the one day
when those sputtering
sax notes
will send me to Your arms,
a cowering fool,
in the arms of a King.