this shy white sun does not shine down on me.
the perfect curve of your cheeks
is the only thing to be bathed in a new gold.
and your face turns sideways, shining silver,
your lips curve upwards,
bruised and reddened and bitten.
cheeks of rose, cheeks of pink,
boiling blood in a heart of ceaseless wonder.
and your mouth; it break the dawn itself
with the fiery stars you spit;
we speak of fire
and the sun burns brighter in the morning.
there is no boldness to this dawn;
it has broken windless and calm,
and all the dark has run defeated to the seas;
to the seas where our fire was quenched.

i was named from out of the fires.
from out of the decaying darkness,
from out of the softly screaming redemption
i was plucked.
i will no longer weep for the love of family;
for the love of those who resent my breath,
who sigh at my pain and reject my anguish.
they shall one day fade unwanted
back into the very fires
from which they stole me.

your face is my poem.
your eyes, your cheeks,
your lips of rosy wine;
they are words of wondrous light.
i have found heaven
in the gentle curve of your chin,
and paradise in your smile.

you are my kindling, my fire,
my burning, burning muse;
your voice is the sound
that flames make at dusk
when the world outside is dark
and the embers are slowly dying.
you could burn down cities with your mouth;
together we could burn down worlds.

eating ice-cream on the promenade.
you sit off to the left,
staring sunward with an arm raised above your head.
the seagulls screech,
screech with their own beauty.
the ice creams melt,
resigned to their own wanderings,
liquid and alone.
and your lips, they split storm-clouds
with the lightnings that you speak,
and all the while the sun breaks bright;
the gold shines through the grey.
we stain our mouths blue,
triumphant in the dawn,
with the ice cream quite forgotten,
washed out by now to somewhere new.

how pained these days of sunshine songs,
how dead these hours of spring.
my tiring heart, it beats for thee,
and never for the sea.

a lonely song of april hearts,
a silent scream of earth.
these stones and rocks are bleeding fast,
these creatures never free.

sing blue and careful in those seas,
sail far, sail wide, sail free.
your heart, it beckons to my soul,
your seas, they burn for me.

that fire we started is like your mind,
and your mind is mad.
you are the fallen, the manic,
the departed sanity of a child
lost to his own dreams of death.
you are the fire starter;
star-forged, mad;
barefoot in rubble by the churning seas,
toes reddened, face reddened,
eyes reflecting depravity.

you see me atop the writing desk,
hair aglow with golden sun,
and awoken, wide with life.
nothing but the slow, silent glow;
screaming, fleeing, chaos raging.
we sit with chopin in the dewing glow of morning,
sun rising, light rising,
but the darkness staying with us,
and the darkness stays with them.

turn, look, weep;
a thousand ****** victories calmly glow,
a dozen glorious motions of grey;
the sky is grey, the dawn is grey,
our flames of the electric dawn are grey,
grey, covered with our ash of madness.