Dear ZoeTrope

A tale of a gift in a box
laced with a provocative ribbon
On the tip of the nose drawn
a heart inverted with tenderness

But what is it- she wants to know
in surroundings not suited for that commotion
A refuge in a sea of drunkenness
where time is greedy at the game

But what is it- I want to know
on a stairway that leads nowhere climbs
a sequence of desire
in progressive phases of gyrating emotions

A something that is captivating strange
since I seek for the black, the blank, the bare
The illusion of being moved
on a spinning white horse

She's in my voice
engulfed in it's steady tide
Imagination titillates the table
far more than the truth

Watching light move
seeing with vision that feels
feeling with fingers that see
I dedicate this book to you

Dear ZoeTrope