Iron Horse

We rode together under
a gross and overwhelming
equestrian stature.
As a small part of her
fictitious admirer
I was supposed to be terribly confused.
There was a confict
between reality and fantasy.
Small children played around
the muddled symbol of contrasted innocence. 
The warmth of tears
rose unfamiliar in her eyes.
Suppose, one would think
one disturbed her
even as she uttered
conventional responses,
her innocence was lost
laying somewhere unknown.
Her invented, unimportant lover
momentarily invented
non-existence.
Non-sense.
The shock of how actual
and existing lovers,
yet casually insignificant,
preceded him,
confused by the iron horse
of dominating baby images.
The instant was firmly implanted
where what seemed to reach
happiness,
acceptance?
Proper place?

I attempt to read her biography
in a false relationship of eyes
compelling me to another 
tired sweet day.
I pressed closer.
I bear witnesses
beneath her consensual activities.
I make inquiries in the darkest rooms,
deflecting her to my place.
She seems to
	hesitate
before showing
off to all the gang.
	You're just a figment.
	I've got a real lover.
This occasion ascented anything
but weirdness,
a reaction identified personally
but seldomly concealing
an occupation of trained eyes,
smiling vaguely
at the steel cold horse.
I merely went around...
Substances,   tastes,   the blush,
my rasping voice...