Light in which memories exist, Comes to me by way of fist. And only when I bleed, Red gown, white slip--match on me. Painful color of rosettes,, When horizon on sun dissects, Grip flushing my cheek coquette.. And when I am concussed, The empty channel of snowy dust, The swing, our breath and our lust. If choked, coal of memory stoked, Leather seats--and leather coat. But I cannot proceed in fighting, Though I adore the lighting, For it all ends the same, Setting sun in horizon's grip, Color of the full lips, So beautiful, so fleeting, Then blackness hits.
But colorful vision I won't see, with no touch no flush--no face fading memory.