acraein

Who loves Isabelle?
It was written on the wall
with the haste that they
couldn't bear to be away from her at all.

Would you paint my name
Down by the railroad tracks?
A sign so fine, magnificent,
but subtlety it lacks.

There was a time,
not a faraway age,
I'd think to scrawl your letters
in the indent of my page,

but the shake in my hand
was so profuse,
I tried and tried
but it was no use.

I sat with some tea
for my next session.
I borrowed words
from obscure professions,

and mythology,
and sprung rhythm prose
juxtaposed with
crocus flows.

So covered up
I couldn't tell.
Someday I'll simply sing,
Loves Isabelle.