A small piece of satin,
Held by single thread and pin.
To divest myself of it would be
To undo what has been.

Far from the chatter of the daylight hours,
Away from where the fireflies buzz.
The street lights hum with moths aflutter,
The river froths and churns.
She sits suspended in the air;
Her  arms are slack, blank is her stare;
Oh she wishes, floating there,
For the river to take her away.

To be cluttered is to be free,
To be free,
Truly free,
Is to stare into the stark blues and whites of the sky
and just for a second
imagine the infinite abyss beyond.
Your mind wanders and suddenly you’re there;
Sitting, floating in the abyss,
swirling your paint brush onto that infinite canvas
Filling the empty space with
Dreams
Love
All the wonderful feelings that you keep inside are splashed into the void
Making clutter.

The scalpel runs across your flawless skin
Drawing sweet blood as it goes.
If you truly wanted to be one with me,
then repeat this as your dying throes:
“I love you. Don't leave me. I couldn’t bear;
To watch the moon rise or see the sun’s flare
without your benevolent, caring embrace;
So carve from my body;
My flesh is your prize.
So take no sadness in my imminent demise.”