It was this day, centuries ago,
milky ways and golden honey showers
flowing down those sandstone castles,
orange alleys smelling pregnant -
the street a womb of fruity towers,
no, never has there been a gate,
not necessary with the inside seen on petaled crowns,
the care of nurture on their unique bark.

It was this day, centuries ago,
you were queen and I was king,
one of France and one of Spain.
Along the alley you were walking
waves of Bordeaux soaked in milk,
pignon skin and anemones
floating through that orange scent.
I've never seen feet so much talking,
as if all the liquid consciously was falling
to hail you in your grace.

And I, a lion, heart of sun,
roaring with my whole of being
just to get your gaze,
was so banned in
sweet and bitter its perpetuum mobile
that I lost my place in time and space,
seeing imprints in the air, leaving trails of thousands of motions,
till you laid your mermaid fingers
into my brown, ragged, flowing mane,
fondling up my spine, entwining the burning focus
in my golden fire - still stuck in duality.

And she climbed my back, sank in my fur,
sent wind in whispers to my ears:
"Soon my moon, you don't have to look to me, no more.
Soon my moon, you'll know what you came looking for.
Soon my moon, you don't have to roar no more to shine."
Her black, soft branches fell over my face,
upside down,
her forehead on my snout, lips on my forgotten third eye:
"Soon my moon, you'll fall down.
Soon my moon, your crown as it is will not be worth one sound.
Soon my moon, you'll be in hell, finding your way as the grey    
hellhound."
Spellbound, no breath was there to take - my eyes were crying:
"You can break
me,
if you want."
A moment worth of sinking and she was licking up my tears,
coming closer with her black holes,
"Let me be here for eternity, let me be...," last words of a king,
so she started to sing:
"Soon my moon,
soon my moon,
you know you have to fall,
to become sun,"
and she looked me in my eyes,
smiling in wisdom of her own,
as she swallowed me whole.

Hot hell, she fell, Bordeaux on fire
in honey pignon milk,
caramelized paintings on her skin
dripping off beautiful rose colored *******,
causing ripples under shock.

Sandcastles melting in her heat.

And I lay there, licking up her wounds
with now greyed paws,
while she's long gone.

saw you facing God in spite,
saw your face and got inspired

Song*

Verse 1:

Don't tell me that
You miss me
Darling

Don't you know
I feel enough
As Is

Don't tell me that
You're broke and
Starving

You know that I
Can't handle all
Of This

Bridge:

Don't share with me
Your pain
I can't take
It all
Away

You know I'm
Not as strong as
I was in my
Golden age

I can't fix
Your broken parts
Or soothe your
Aching heart

I am the only one
That I should
Try and save

Chorus:
ooooo
I still miss you too
But I am
Not
What I was
Before

ooooo
I can't lift you up
While I am
Lying On the
Floor

OoOoO
I still hold
Out hope I'll
Be Back
Someday

OoOoO
I'll show up
And make it
All OK

But Not
Today
;


Don't tell me that
You're broke and
Starving

Let
Me
Die


As
An
Art

what a foolish girl i am
crying over the past
mourning the future.
whispering sweet nothings
to men who's names
i don't even know.

This is my final goodbye
It's hard for me to see you walking by with that other guy
Even though your heart didn't feel the same way
but I'm glad you brought me joy
Time kept moving forward
but I kept standing still
Waiting for you to feel the same way
but I guess such things only happen in dreams
So, that's why this is my final goodbye to you
It's time for me to move along with time
and say goodbye to this bittersweet dream that kept me tied

And as the poet is in love with his creation,
pouring his divine confusion
into words,
which form the scene
all on their own,

Hades watched a thousand dying butterflies above the Acheron,
shooting star leaves melting
with this everlasting song of grief -
lost souls trying to save themselves
through holding onto black waves in ecstasy
for never having to face the light in their eyes,


he was awakened.


In death they fell
and with them their eggs,

putrefaction of slow motion dragons
spinning beds on Acheron's black surface,
warming what shall be
the birthplace of many
architects,
building bridges between
the twilight of their mother's fleshy ground,

a sight of life on his putrescent river,

- his cold shoulders shiver -

in contrast

veils withered,
shadow petals
covering volcano cliffs
at his feet.

Striding in tune of falling wings,

freezing hands dive slowly
through the riverbed
in snowfall of these many
broken ways
beneath.

Bend death
reaching for
forgotten roots,

once there was a fig tree
decorating somber blues.

-

"Confusion is a sensual state."

"These corpses would call it abuse."

"You did what you had to do -
the lost, they crave for similar hues,
loneliness has to swim through shadow rivers,
they would never know what light was,
if it wasn't for you."

He held her hand that night,
opening the fig with his teeth,
their souls made from the same star,
their flesh, pale clay,
eyes glimmering from afar...

-

Sister ashes,
contractions for the wounded,
left where darkness could feel the cycle of
day and night.

- "Only in her eyes" -

- "Only in her eyes" -

He wished her ashes could have cried,
so he did release the disease
to please dry ground.

The Acheron born
in tears forlorn
through sight
of a body loved
under the fig tree

which should have kissed the sun,
despite preset destiny.

- Her movement, melody feeding fireflies in underworld's ties,
her voice, a caress to remind  -

Hades grabbed his heart
where her rooted arms
were touching the source
under layers of black sand

and silk worms shat bridges between liquid graves,

not even habitual waves were able to stop
these equilibrists from dancing
above this once started ****,

the legacy of rainbows
eternally engraved
in rebirth of
flying tenderly
to space.

White strings
angelically touching
devilish safes
capturing hopeful bays
have risen ways
of difference
in his shameful prays.

- A ladle carved out of the sky,
right there where his sister died -

New meaning,
defeating told,

he scooped silk bridges
into his hollow heart,

stitches in corners,
tension in twilight
a song to be sung
for the fragility of her caring fingers,
gentle masters of the art
of turning black to gold,

he created the harp.


Corpses calm.
Honey drooling eyes.
Hades conquering Mars.

you cared a little less yesterday.
i should've been grateful
because you don't at all today.

wri
ting is
threading
your           life
thro             ugh
a ne           edle
and         if
you sew
secrets
you'll
get
po
ke
d
a
l
i
t
t
l
e
.