Paper Cranes Poem by JAY WALK

Upon these hills, my dearest,
never have I retorted;
Blue silvers used for sanctuary
as French flames burn in shame.
Never have I ever
retorted as walnut paste dyes
the skin running through
great games,
compasses witheld.

Hasten! For sun dried locks were brushed apast;
(the wind mistook pliancy for
wheat bathed in dawn)
Wheels of fortune turn as you dare
(I won't retort)
corrupt mothers as Bazaar-women;
Look closer! In your search,
you have forgotten you
were one.

Hasten, as the pregnant sun now shoots hundred dreams,
each an arrow.
She isn't patient like me.
Tell him, in his search imbibed,
is my prayer for you.

Run, O'Hare! You are, but a player
drunk on the wistfulness of a thousand tales.
For Blued veins await the
Friend Of The Stars,
Blue veins, on whom beads
grow heavier each night,
await you,
Friend of all the world.