A waywardly wavely flag astride,
Grappling with the present's gleem,
A crimson dream.
The flag is no flag but a diary,
Of words and verses ordinary.
An ode to someone, somewhere,
Like the breath of spring air.
The air, her air, is such a flight,
The flag which flew with all its might.
Has flown back to me,
Has boomeranged to reality.
I've felt such exaltation,
I've felt such jubilation,
But never have I ever,
Felt this levitation.
L'armour sans armour is a tough tragedy,
As you collect the spoils of your heart's treachery.
Lord! Grace this frail friend of mine,
Sooth the heart which has mangled the affairs of the mind.
Five years, five phases of consternation,
Disbelief, surrealism and artistic frustration.
For I've seen five faces and all resemble too.
I've had a crimson dream, what about you?
