O Breath, O Mirth!

A fugacious fugue
Declares itself the prelude to
The ever-growing, twisting snarl
That rises up from belly, gnarled
And gnawing, itching at the sides,
Reforming; in the mouth resides
A tongue which crafts that lovely sound,
That heavenly laughter - joy abounds.

And though that peal begins in ire,
Lips curve and anger yawns; expires.
I grasp your palm and kiss the lines
Doodled tenderly by some divine
Being, not from dusty tomes
But breathing in the earthy loam,
You shout in pure, boundless mirth:
A breathless dearth.

Gasping empty, effervescent;
Later, I contemplate the crescent
Moon that brightens up the night,
And to myself I thought I might
Give it up for all that blaze
That shines so from you lovely face.

The End

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