can become of feelings plotted, never Gaussian?
like dreams scattered and popping
the only time I see flowers ,
are when the words turn into doilies
covering me like my red wool blanket
but leaving my hands and feet
dangling loosely like willows in my bed
at times I begin to wonder
on when will that love permeate
why words dissolve before its utterred
with the idea of those dreams becoming so potent
that my mind will begin to stray
far from where I am right then
a relatively short distance from your chest
can become of feelings, never Gaussian?
as one struggle to keep the margins
safely intersecting the thoughts
of what could be and what could not
in my sorrows and heaps of sigh
tantrums and wishes benign
where could this point land
down and up the slope,
but never Gaussian...