Stars melt like
candle wax;
any added scent
lost long before
retina wick is
burned
down.

Vermilion teardrops:
falling in waves like
anguished petticoats
rustling down the year's
corridor into winter;
the palace gates are bare
arms, living kindling
unscarred in pools of fire -
with Chronos' breath to set
the mood,
glowing in every torch
the charred remains of
a living kingdom
fall to ash.

He loves torn, worn and broken things;
lives on bookshelves dreaming of
girls with shorn, drooping, flightless wings
and ancient eyes so he can watch endless rain scattering rainbows to fill a blotched mind
that he can’t see is far from flightless.

I see you
beneath the robust
rubies that draw
drooling blood to keep
alight, in your skin,
I see you,
peering through lace
lashes across your face
of silk damask,
on the inside the
colours reversed and
I see it, that, every stitch
(every missing thread),
I see you.

Moth-eaten lace veil -
it unfurls like swan wings
beating back to a better time;
holes pocket sunlight
and age-old folds
mimic the curve of your mouth,
light and dark play
as the lace dances
between my fingers -
inhale
exhale

There's always a charm
in how puzzle pieces slot
together, physically
a pair moulded to
come together.
There's always a charm
in how shells encase nuts
tight around,
nature's perfect nurturing fit.

There's always a charm
in how flowers sway
side-by-side
more beautiful together
creating explosive seas
of colour
and grace,
standing proudly alone,
with pollen smeared on stigma,
but better together.