Without Annie, the world would lose its glimpse
Of water wars and fantasies of dining with the moon.
A glass of wine, of apple green, and a slice of golden cheese.
A bread crumb of a speck of risk of getting caught red-handed.

Annie: that quiet scroll of sanctities and preclusive love.
A dreamer, of sorts, with her head in the clouds of dust
Of busy bees and tall trees looming before the stack of ants.
Annie: a tiny drop of iodine on test-strips of sweet virginity.

An autumn curl of October rust, brushed against a pearl of ivory sunrise.
The twinkling pole of the carribean blue giving insight to the core.
A clock of ice that ticks in the warmth of a summer's womb.
The burgundy sprite gleaming and boasting of forbidden fruits and guilty passions.

Annie: a burning library of abandoned paths and hints of tall tales.
A vanilla malt half-full; left on the checkers of long-gone picnics.
The character of moss under brittle nails, picked up along the way.
The naivete of a missing hand, the other in a pocket.