the page echoes back my silence
it has traces and track of whispers
little voices that harbor malice to my intent
little things crawling round in my wants
and as the song disintegrates on her guitar
like my mind slipping into the dark waters of a spike
she announces the motionless perspective
of a Salvador Dali  masterpeice
as seen from the inside
her liquid eyes
are in my mouth
as the song desintergrates on her worn guitar
they are blue opulence
but taste like an engine of death
and as that song of our love affair
desintergrates
its dusty fragments clog my pen

blue opulence
is a state of mind