My Cliche for Authenticity

I wager I've been alone

Because a cliche of the sun's spotlight

Hasn't shone on that one.

I wrestle with trembling desire,

Desire for the rays to arrow 

A woman down a golden brick path.

Where she tip-toes around fire ants

Right to my clammy feet. 

She tells me to loosen up,

Because the hummingbirds 

Are singing without me,

That the Cypress' live in swamps

For hydration because 

They're out dancing all night, 

And the wind whistles 

Like a cat-call which lead her

To me. 

Then, my tongue twists and my

Throat thunders,"You speak poetry."

She replies, 

"No, I speak love."

But, I deceive myself, believing

The morning rays aren't just

The feeble glow of a cell-phone, and

The wind doesn't heap over-dyed

Split-ends to the next fashion show.