My eyes plead for sleep, for sleep
But night entreats me to creep, to creep
Out in the black so deep, so deep
And follow the fence so neat, so neat
Up the hill so steep, so steep
Where light shines so meek, so meek
In a cold breeze so weak, so weak
Under a tree that's sharp, not bleak
And do the wild dance for dreams

The night whispers
Things the stars told them
Lines of truth to sound like ink
And stolen murmers, he didn't think
That, for all their wisdom, stars
Have wild mischief in their hearts
And oh, the things they make you dream
But still, all things I'm glad I've seen
But night soon grows too weary and old
And the stars fade in shining gold
Before night can tell me what he's told
From the stars who live so silver-bright
And so good morning, and goodnight

I took my skeletons
And put them in the closet
Way back where no one
Could ever find them
But the noise of clacking bones
Haunted me daily.

You came along
And opened the doors
Danced with the skeletons under sunlight
Until their bones crumbled to dust

And held my hand as the dust was carried away by the wind

She reached out to him
He reached out to her
Nerves jangling
And lips shredded by unsure teeth
Eyes widened in anticipation
And adrenaline pumping.
Limbs shaking in fear
And nervous excitement
He reached out to her
She reached out to him
They reached out and touched the stars

A scarlet confection
Made to tasty perfection
For your mouth’s inspection

The tip of the toppings
The vanilla flavored frosting
Is so tempting to you

The taste bud’s elation
In what you are facing
Is something like devil’s food cake

The tiled floor kitchen
In the hours bewitching
Leaves your pulse a twitching
From the caloric intake

And the hours you shorten
By licking the shortening
They are a mistake
But they are your poisonous pleasure
Made to bake and yours’ to take
It’s a sweet treat we call cake

Do not talk of the honey I pickled in your light bulbs

They do not have the map to help us reach The Alps

Just talk of the hungry flower growing on my lungs

At least they have the address to the hut on my palms

That’s drawn by the little girl who feasted on the chalks

The butterflies long ago planted along in their pulse.


Quick,  


Incinerate the 1800s post-mortem portraits

In black light's faked midnight perfumes

For you are my forlorn apostrophe high on gas

That might ask questions while telling us your tales

Or reluctantly whisper ****** things about Laqus

Who is wasting us to the wistful hell flowers.