Always
you are my disease with no cureYou 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.