So, this is what happens late night riding the D-Train back to South Slope...

contention to the wind
brisk, purple breeze
as it speak of this residue like bursting embers
hot, burgundy flames

rising, creeping afar
stealing crimson verse from an ancient poet
a fedora tilted to the right
a coffee-stained diner plate

a road-trip down horizon's pinhead
a peculiar mustiness
filled with number two pencils
cut into sections

made for scripting the intention of this mood.

- gypsy george.

Ice capped mountain-tops
silver ropes of moonbeam glances
sweeps along the gushing madness
pelting against winter's wind

I believe the crossroads have already departed

strum, strum
this machine is my life's gun
I can see through destiny and fate

blue, blue
silly Hawaiian songs,
ukulele, Ha`o ana i kou nani ë

slow dancing under the howl of Louis Armstrong

staying firmly warned
warming to passion's myth
marching to the beat of ardor
along this distant shore

finds us torn between the fray of heart and soul

I won't be lonely
I won't forget the devotion
I'll smile

I'll remember May

- gypsy george.