Halos with Horns

As his fingers brush back my long forgotten hair They dance along the back of my neck. Knocking on my deepest, inner scabbed-over scars. And, since curiosity obscured the octopus, I won't tell you about practicing pointe in Heaven's Ball Room Imagine - I understand technology makes it hard - But imagine blowing out a candle - that wispy smoke? That is me, doing my practiced dances in the air. Funny how your air is the catalyst for my hair, How your breath is mine. How your heart keeps mine going, Hand in hand on the cobblestone streets. A derby hat and tutu walk toward us on stilts And strait into the water, Which promptly carries them away, so they can escape my Innermost thoughts, hopes, dreams, and nightmares. After careful examination of which, it's a miracle I'm NOT INSANE. Or maybe I am - really, who can tell anymore? However, upon the realization of poetry I have forever determined I am most certainly sane. Because my insanity is on paper. And the Industrial Carnival-Style Snowman Pauses, and would like me to tell you He says, "Hello".