Deah Caldwell Poetry

Fire flies from his fingertips,
and his eyes–pointed laser beams,
shooting holes through my fabrications;
setting fire to the stitching at my seams.
I never saw his crooked smile coming,
but I know for certain, I’ll never be the same.
As soon as the tracks are laid in heaven,
you can grab my waist, and say my name.
There is no crazy influence here,
except for a mystical God inside.
Supposing that’s why it’s called a loco motive,
who knew love could be a final train ride?