oh wait...

its,
two in the morning
and now three.
flowing, inane thoughts
weighted they are not.
warping, twisting,
but won't stop.
the water, kettling
just as it starts to boil,
bet you hear,
if you listen too, my dear.
the leaves bleeding
with the avarice of steam.
as the amber,
creeps to the rim
a venturing
short of the brim
now,
the depth is my bowl.
my palms,
their willingness to hold.
filtering a need to express,
thoughts within my mind,
a needing to caress.
would you pull the gate,
maybe this pasture,
if you come through
will hold the clue?