When you’re not around not one thing makes sense.
Stars seem red behind laughing clouds of green;
as healthy germs are placed in quarantine.
Now nothing happens in the present tense.
When you’re not around everything seems weird:
The trees have witchy fingers spooky shapes
(deep-rooted in a dried-up lunarscape)
while every leaf and flower snigger-sneers.
But when you grace my presence with your poise
the jigsaw pieces crumple into place.
Dead suns will blare their light in hyperspace —
cacophony becomes a joyful noise.
Am I a foolish man (undignified)
to want you here forever by my side?
© 2011, Alan Morrison