I know they wait behind the
door, waiting till my spark is
gone, till i am no more. They
hunger for what I have craving
it for they are knocking at my door.

When that time comes,
escorted to that place not
of the living world, the next
place I wish not to go. I can not
escape their  grip so cold it freezes
me to my spiritual core.

Tormented for what I have done,
in the days of the living, lives ruined
to me a game now I must pay in kind
for the sins that were done.

The things that have earned me  
a place of torment where my soul
will never find peace, torn to shreds
my soul in pieces burning for evermore.

Lust moves easy mind roams crazy
What you like you want to own
Past turns of years when limbs lazy
Only then find love full grown.

Unripened age when turns new page
Lovelorn young minds be must
It’s only when the seasons age
You find in love true trust.

It’s made that way we have no say
Though love is summer born
It strongly holds till winter stays
Breaks not when trouble torn.

Can’t define how made like this
It takes years to own
The richest wine and the perfect bliss
Of love with time full grown!

I don't know you
But I want you.
All of you.
I want to hear your voice
Speak warm laughters
I want your hands to
Trace my geography 
To have them laced in my hair
and lock my fingers
I want your gaze
To drown me
I want the bow of you lip
To see how they pout while listening 
I want you
All of you.

Stasis in darkness.
Then the substanceless blue
Pour of tor and distances.

God's lioness,
How one we grow,
Pivot of heels and knees! -- The furrow

Splits and passes, sister to
The brown arc
Of the neck I cannot catch,

******-eye
Berries cast dark
Hooks ----

Black sweet blood mouthfuls,
Shadows.
Something else

Hauls me through air ----
Thighs, hair;
Flakes from my heels.

White
Godiva, I unpeel ----
Dead hands, dead stringencies.

And now I
Foam to wheat, a glitter of seas.
The child's cry

Melts in the wall.
And I
Am the arrow,

The dew that flies,
Suicidal, at one with the drive
Into the red

Eye, the cauldron of morning.

The clouds reach their hands down
and cover the mountain peaks.
They call the Moon to reflect the Sun's light;
the fog glows a golden orange across the slopes.

In a dreamstate,
we are driving through Castle Rock,
the star brightly shining atop the granite anomaly.
He lights his pipe,
his hands swipe the match against the book like a maestro conducting a symphony,
and exhales the aroma of Philosopher's Blend into the thin Colorado air.

Many miles now separate
us, from the Rockies of Colorado
to the badlands of new Mexico;
but his smoke rings still
linger in the air, among the clouds,
that shroud the mountaintops.