I stand before the Sun — she waits for me
with splendid orchid sighs upon the breeze.
I bow before the Moon — she cries to me
with orchestrated whys and mysteries.
Inevitable emblems of our tryst
are haunting my perception of the path
which stretches out before the lips I kissed
in vague galactic visions’ aftermath.
So then the Sun and Moon before my eyes
did blend their molten rays around your face;
I felt my inhibitions vaporise
but did not want to box you in a space.
I have no expectations, so I said;
(a lie) while portions of my cheeks turned red.
© 2011, Alan Morrison