The Scarlett Locket

Maybe my problem 

is that I insist

my words be so grand,

so vital,

they transmute into oxygen,

so literal,

so eternal

they be inscribed in the stone of your heart,

so light,

so alive,

they soar off the page,

find their flock,

and back to mother nature they go!

Waiting to be discovered by 

some biologist

and his keen eye,

a scientist and his life’s passion, 

alone in the woods 

of romance,

floating through rich canopies

of golden-grown green.

Fearing extinction,

fighting the taxidermists, 

until the rifle of some industrialist 

has poached my 

winged woes,

and maybe

under the money microscope, 

you all will see, 

lounging in the petri dish, 

these words of mine…

prove meaningless

to all of you.