When wearing moments like clothes,

which Pavlov’s ***** would suggest is a moment’s cost,

it’s hard to imagine what it means to be naked

if all you can do is remember.

In the rare occasions that I forgot,

I find myself bare bodied with a thought;

if all is fair in love and war

then all is fair and why talk?

There are some differences in the shades

between what one calls reality

and another calls god.

Both wrapped in the tattered garments of their lives

stitched together with words defined by their cause.

My queen of the spider’s flies awaits me,
To tame my black iron horses of blood.
A mistress of the finite she will be,
A whisperer to dead hearts drowned with love.
Into the dead mans pupil I lead her,
Across ocean floor deserts for our right,
Fishing for men, luminescent and fair
And My darkness will not reflect her light.
I am ashes to which she is the spark.
Sowing her lands a path down in dead grass.
Strangle fresh air for its freshness, this land I’ll mark,
I’ll declare my love in the fear that she’ll pass,
But for all my passion’s flames on her tears,
She is but steam, just out of grasp gossameres.

Bloodless moon sinking,
Chalk white, ball of dust crumpled,
Gone— she bled my heart.