Behind the curtain
of closed doors
and words dressed
in gowns of metaphors
what of love is found
in flesh of lust
and what of lust is found
in raging blod of love

Under sheets of starlight
and blankets woven
from fresh flowers
bloomed from sin  
and why should
we wear this skin
if not to indulge in things
made from fire

In beds of verse and silk
and words of flame
burning your image in the night
I find your name painted
in the sound
and beating of my heart

In a dreamers grave
my bones will dry and fade
where my love died
buried under metaphors
for I could not find my way
behind the curtain
of closed doors