a dreamless with a knitting machine
my skin etches abiding the stream
washes down into all but a dream,
starry eyes are closer in disbelief.

An angel flutters fallen awoken,
a gift to the unstably spoken,
piano melody in a different key,
I'm finding it too hard to breathe

She's all in white and green eyes
never by tombstone in which she died,
silky mistress so ghostly mysterious
Dressed saintly in a sunday dress.

Schooled into a rhythm of chills
Systematically against her will
She bites my skin but there's no peace,
when my flesh has been on lease.

Truth-less will one day become facts,
when our limbs stop withering about,
and believe in the Reaper's centuries tale,
a warning for any paper boats to sail.

Demons are all around the angelic,
am I all but a triangle dreaming saintly,
I'll live till the day I am aspiring
to be the haunting of the wandering.