She Calls Me Poem by Joseph Narusiewicz

Each hour supple like Napoleons sword
We all crash
Go a little insane for a season
The foe is nothing but outlandish color
Ripples of the great green swamp
Beauty sits by a basswood tree

So you got it figured out?
Slippery rocks of the smiling monk
Conscience stands guard
Knowledge needs guardian angels
How was your journey?
Rhymes without thorns

Rimbaud stares at the African rain
Words fly like Japanese jungles
His eyes were in prison
Her barren shelter has no exit
The mind is a black hole at times
Clouds move over the sycamore

She calls me, don't go there Joe!