the moon is my friend
she cradled me in my past life
she handed me to my mother when it was time for a new one
she gave me fruit when i was younger
sometimes she leaves
but she always returns

They say pain
makes poetry
so I wondered why
I hadn't been writing
then I remembered
pain is not what I'm feeling
it's what I'm yearning
in all this feeling
of numb

I kissed a girl with a broken smile;
nothing could come near.
She carved it with a pocket knife;
slit from ear to ear.
And she wears it like her favourite scarf;
it keeps her from the cold.
So I told her its only woven by
her enemies of old.

you see the climbing rose
on the garden fence?

and the ivy that competes with her?
birds promise springtime
but in me remains
the everlasting winter

Fingers touch
eyes dilating

he moves closer.

One last kiss
long but sweet.

I move away
with memories.

keep your eyes closed love.

           e     t      
       m           i
    o                 m
s                        e  
                            s     all you have to
                                                                ­
                                                                ­ l                  to is what the sound
                                                           ­      i            n
                                                  ­                s           e
                                                               ­          t

                                                              ­                               v
                                                               ­                         a        e
                             ­                                          of the  w               s
                                                               ­                                       
                         ­                                                                 ­            tells  you
                                                                ­                                        to do.

Song of love, twisted by welling darkness.

Vengeful art, practiced with vicious subtlety.

The softest lips whispered the hardest lies.

She exhaled an evocation of ethereal dreams,

Whose only prophecy was eternal sorrow.