I have a friend who says she lost her mojo.

Where it went she says she doesn’t really know.

She swears she has looked high and low.

Now where the hell could a mojo go?

I asked her if she looked under the bed.

Or maybe in the back of the closet instead.

Then again maybe it’s still inside her head.

In a place where her thoughts rarely tred.

Mojos are strange and hard to describe.

Like nailing Jello to a tree it’s often been tried.

Long and short and thin and wide.

No one really knows and if they say they do.. they lied.

Coming and going like a swinging door.

You can’t shop online or buy one in a store.

Mojos are magical auras of lore.

When it’s gone we wish it back just once more.

Like a warm blanket on a brisk winter day.

Mojos envelop us and keep the cold away.

It unlocks our minds and gives freedom to stray.

Our ideas flow and we write with little delay.

So my friend needs her mojo to come back soon.

She’s tired of the music playing the same old tune.

The same rising sun in the sky like a balloon.

And the same dark horizon with the same setting moon.

I’ve figured it out, she needs to make a list.

A list of only one item that she has missed.

And on this point I must insist.

My friend is waiting to be longingly and passionately kissed.

She needs to see colors and not everything in black.

A heart pounding kiss, her body slack.

The right set of lips she is needing to smack.

Are there any volunteers to give my friend her mojo back?