Tickles

In the stark, silence of pure vulnerability

alone and exposed to the secrets

suppressed in the lairs within dreams.

They are subtle plains of fantasia kissed,

where inhibition’s plumes blossom in their tickle

as they tease with the mental mirages

of love and longing that linger in their ache

while waiting for that sunrise

over the castle the heart

wishes it could to dwell.

 

But the voices from the past

blow their winds over that reverie boa

with its pink tender glow

utterly able to make the heart throb

until it combs the skin with its power,

so burning the urge for the fairy tale from youth

to be the morning of tomorrows.

 

Only it remains a vapor,

a cerebral wisp in wonder’s spell,

ever struggling to control the shudders

from the feel of that cherry hue feathery magic

that reminds how there is more to life

than the sorrowful soliloquies of solitude.

 

Willingly clinging

unto that airy feel of a delicate mental quill

used to write the vows for change

because it holds a seductive sway in its charms,

which keeps hope fanning in the quiet

about how the future

can be more than story just written in the head.