Syllables unfamiliar to my lips
Stumble towards the unsympathetic spinnings
Of a plastic ceiling fan,
Frantically in pursuit
Of that perfect arrangement of letters and sounds
That will capture those hazel eyes
With lashes naturally darker
Than the midnight black I apply to my own
And the soothing touch
Which unknowingly guides broken prayers to the surface
And somehow turns these pissbrown eyes
Framed with fashionable black muck
Into a deep velvet cushion
Cradling a soft ring of gold.