Dandelions and Hatred

She knows her eyelashes are painted

And her stories are a pastel of plurals

She knows that her nightmares are simply that

She knows she sleeps when she wakes

And dreams with her smiles

But he, he is just a he

Working away at bread in the pantry

An apron of Opel and a smile of glass

He likes to wander off in her reflection

The lanterns of her eyes guiding

But he, is just a he

And they, they swim in the crescent of moonlight

And float away gracefully, homelessly

In full abandon and on ships of tattered sails

and a heavy eyed captain with red painted tails

With sleep tripping on his woes

As if tomorrow never knows

Where to find him

As he took off his clothes

Smelt a smell with his nose

She knew where to find him

Bewitching with her powdered praise

The pollen of his younger days

The dandelions, and the hatred

She felt his frown with a knowing eye

Holding him, and asking why

He’s the only man he knows, who hates him

And he withers wittering on

And by the end of his third song

She tells him all about

The hating

And she too sings cheerlessly

Speaking to him endlessly

Kissing his mind until she wakes him

And dusting pollen from his eyes

He’s taken back, and he’s surprised

He let the sleep senorita

Take him.