A rain, of enigmatic enterprises,
that once entertained my days,
I was pressed on the wall:
frantic for want of some space;
my dynamism, in deep disgrace…
“What’s with the ruse?!
Is she an offer that I can’t refuse…?”
Condescension, climaxing in vain,
my tryst with pretence,
depicting fictitious disdain;
gracious that my lady lay
ahead, along the path I turned,
I guess she’s my windward way:
wouldn’t mind however she spurned…
Getting my kicks, en Route 66,
trudging the terrain as pinpricks,
cruising the
nothing much fancy, there to see…
But she: She’s my road to
she’s a Frost–fallacy…
Hitting the track to
sailing the blood of Karamazov and Karenina,
pausing to pant at a station;
it’s the drive that’s better than the destination…
No different is my affectation;
I seek not to reach your heart,
but the least of a leach, before I depart;
satisfied with the start, sans adieu,
of my journey to you…
I lied about my jigs, en Route 66,
haven’t trekked a terrain since I was 6,
I’ve never crossed the turnstile;
talk about hitchhiking, along the
But I still stand by my fancy,
that she: She’s my road to
she’s a Frost–fallacy…
“You’re my road to
please don’t be, a lost fantasy…”
