The night is ink
It moves around me
with it's broken heart

beautiful bluff
feathered in mist
silent and proud
moisture kissed
almost broke my knees getting to you
but now you’re a lover
whose company is missed
and coming home
rounding the curves
near your sea skirt
I look up
at your vertical mantle
with a loving heart
so glad to be living
in your embrace

irreprehensible state
becomes constrained
and ridden with angst
incomprehensible dealings
with endless halls
and no ceilings
drowned out
by the sound
of silence
I cannot speak
for one must look within
to find their peace
otherwise
faced with fate
brain overload
we detonate-
forever yielding
and there;
never revealing,
it remains
lying in wait
within the maze
to take us back
from whence we came

i descend into what i believe
to transcend into moments of you
like dark hues under eyes i used to pour into
i break into motions with men i fought on a darkened end
of streets where i scoured to find signs in the night
like which way to write, which way was right
and i prose you in thought
a slumber in deep hum
a hymn to a rhythm, a tango i once fought
in front of desire and passion
the way you hold a lighter in echoed moments
from mountains atop midnight
where i eclipse my mind and transcend to find out
how i used to sleep at night
in dire moments with a rhythm of you
as we’re slow dancing to a cause i fail to see
yet hide to ignore
because beauty sees and the ego hides in what it wants
like melting with you
holding onto past mirages of men in might
in false knight armor
darkened elixirs to bring desire
i paint you a picture
for what you want to see
i breathe you into a world where
i paint you to be
how i’d like to see
how i’d like you to be
how the fog at night masked you to be
in summer of thirteen

we move in easy
rhythm
hands on waists, movements
timed and precise
singing in perfect melody
as we speak in perfect song
the two of us
together all along
our dance is lovely
content and hardly irked
one is not without the other,
the writer and her work

O'er the midnight moorlands crying,
Thro' the cypress forests sighing,
In the night-wind madly flying,
Hellish forms with streaming hair;
In the barren branches creaking,
By the stagnant swamp-pools speaking,
Past the shore-cliffs ever shrieking,
****'d demons of despair.

Once, I think I half remember,
Ere the grey skies of November
Quench'd my youth's aspiring ember,
Liv'd there such a thing as bliss;
Skies that now are dark were beaming,
Bold and azure, splendid seeming
Till I learn'd it all was dreaming —
Deadly drowsiness of Dis.

But the stream of Time, swift flowing,
Brings the torment of half-knowing —
Dimly rushing, blindly going
Past the never-trodden lea;
And the voyager, repining,
Sees the wicked death-fires shining,
Hears the wicked petrel's whining
As he helpless drifts to sea.

Evil wings in ether beating;
Vultures at the spirit eating;
Things unseen forever fleeting
Black against the leering sky.
Ghastly shades of bygone gladness,
Clawing fiends of future sadness,
Mingle in a cloud of madness
Ever on the soul to lie.

Thus the living, lone and sobbing,
In the throes of anguish throbbing,
With the loathsome Furies robbing
Night and noon of peace and rest.
But beyond the groans and grating
Of abhorrent Life, is waiting
Sweet Oblivion, culminating
All the years of fruitless quest.

With her hair
     Like the midnight Sky
And her eyes
     Gray as the hanging Moon

She told me I was bright like the Sun
     And I wished to create
A solar system together,
     Without any space between our orbits.