I am not documented by my thoughts
but by touch...

Was it that long ago I was restricted,
by soldiers of our country wearing...

Spring has a certain sound,
unlike any composition orchestrated...

She chanced love,
throwing fate like two red hot dice...

Is it possible to only exhale
questions when the breaths we take...

Already over, these vines playing
angry melodies upon my palm...

Everyday,
I leave this house parched...

Lavender cardigan, vanilla
shawl, black satin dress...

Questioning everything I do,
I don't trust myself to radiate...

You prowl through my blood,
vicious, but maybe that is my...

Marilynn, was your story ever composed?
Did you live without any guitar chords...

Am I pushing you away
with questions...