She is to me
Like fire to frostbitten fingertips.
I cherish the silver sliver
Of her sweet, tempered knife
Invading a dull, grey life.
My stone,
Fragmented over planes
I knew naught existed.

All the while, I cannot share
This secret spell
She has mistakenly casted over me.

As I am the cloth close to her heart,
Weepless and waiting-
For her to draw me
Towards the flame of her lips.
I will never tell her this:

I am a thousand pieces.

The breadth of a cliff
Gauged as narrow,
Glossed with ego.

To his chagrin
He could fall in
And strike the final shoal.

Atoll, a toll.
On her cherry lips,
Beckons a cheery lay.

To have failed
Trounces the fool
That thorns his ears
Of her musical display.

Like the first inspire of brisk, waking air.
The climbing Carpathian lantern of day.
I sip on tender herbs and taste the gentle stems
Of sensations gone astray.

I feel an awakening.

Weeping Winter
Deigns his spine
In small whispers of magic.

The fingers of a ghost
He Almost
Mourned the loss of them.

Until he tastes
The fruit of rot.
And felt
Old daggers in the dark.

Like a drop of dew
In Summer heat,
He recedes towards the Sun

To await the Winter Mourn
And scorn
A mother of her forgotten son.

You are a worm.
Yet even famished fowl reap for any other.

What worth are heavy pockets
If they are suffused with stool?

Darling, how pretty pauper you pray
Pity she invocates for a lascivious eventide lantern.

Yet if it were me,
That lantern so sweet,
Would she truly taste hellfire.