All that once was
is now but a dream
life changes its colours
with its unpredictable scheme

we drift on unnoticed
in its mysterious stream
in our distant reverie
how unreal all things seem

In the black spheres of another’s cavernous
eyes I lost myself amidst the seep of my own
light patterned into strange foreign orbs

drinking heavily of I
am borne on the winds of imagined hands
sculpting me awake. where I can dream-in
the voids between lust, where the nothing
seems happy, the night is my friend

in the convex meniscus of another’s iris
perhaps I can dream of rebirth in the titrating
wound in the womb of lust

makes my eyes search the ether. In the
womb of my lust there is wind in my wings.
In the womb of my lust there is more

to be found. to be woken into equilibrium
perhaps I must abandon the forked tongue
of independence, so that fanged loneliness

can die of happiness. the snake becomes
a docile bird when fed. the castle of self
becomes a womb in the kingdom
of entwined, sleeping hands. we are born

many.

your love will not wither
for your soul
emanates warmth
and a little bit of drizzle.
memoirs never cease
to tickle every bit of me —
for you are the goddess
i adore and worship;
and i would never dare
disobey.