She quickly departed/
to dry her hair./
The thoughts she started/
were just dropped there.
With her cool ridge muse
of dream opiate,
she left me confused,
yet not able to forget.
Her thoughts brushed free visions/
and imaginationings;/
combed life revisions/
and hope awakenings.
Like golden braids without an end or a start,
she’s woven inspired thoughts through my mind and heart.
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 