.  The faucet is left open
seconds of water left running
while we sleep

    the winds all tap on the window
they lay themselves out along the glass
to cover her ugly nakedness
while we sleep

    smoke and frost look too alike
so why does one stay while the other
simply flies

   where do you run
to the guillotine?
you’ve no one to execute
though you are the queen

  you bury your hands into the horizon
between pain and bliss
the ladder is falling
it fits in your wrist

your indifference remains as a ghost on my lips
and they sting like frosty mist
collarbones claw on the surface of my skin
as the naked air leaves it’s kiss

and the wings that once fluttered betwixt heartstrings
have slept carelessly on the ground
like strands of hair mistaken for threads of lust
parting limbs that were never meant to be bound

your teeth were glazed with honey
sugar crystals hiding the freckles on your nose
your lungs are calm and alcohol free
yet intoxication’s inevitable, my pores would hate to close
when your breath is hugging my nape so tight
and I can’t see your empty eyes
distant memory of impatience
in love with nothing but the end of the night.

Art was religion’s enemy, but nobody knew it.
Ignorance’s persecution and deception’s excommunication
are invisible marks stamped onto every wooden pallete.

What with the saints’ every feature executed with the finest human touches,
it’s divinity could not be more countoured and highlighted.
The bold kisses of sunlight onto the walls of the cathedrals
remind tense shoulders and pointed slippers how much they are adored by the universe..

while they, not as much so.

God’s fingerprints are engraved onto every human brain
for the mind is powerful enough to imagine
vast forests and fine cloth,
sweet wine and golden crusts of bread,
cherry lips and tamed silver hairs,
the softest pillows for varnished beds,
herds of sheep and gallops of mares.

The artist is glorified, admired and lusted for the deceptions it’s brushes could print onto textured paper.
Perhaps heaven’s mess sent graciously upon wiked ground,
unfertile for carrying the growth of who is gripping too lightly on the artist’s  border for beauty,
were the wrong tones of purple, blue, red, yellow, or brown.