You are my disease,

with no cure.

A  Kansas flower,

blooming in the sun.

Wisps of vapors across

July skies.

Rarity of a Mexicali 

emerald. 

Lonely wolf,

telling his story.

Under full harvest moon,

Love won and lost.

Trace your steps,

on prairie fields.

With a dry smile,

stoop for that last prairie flower.

Held to one’s lips,

my drug, my life.

My love.

You are,

and always will.

Be my disease,

with no cure.