The sweetness of love
by night is fated to sour
as the blood drips
like dewdrops from every bower,
your face milky pale
as a lily, deathliest of flowers.
You fail to look at me, you,
steeped in your own greed
without care for my needs,
eyes close as I choke on midnight blues,
the moonlight reflecting
your every hue; those the shades
of parting, the last taste of fruit.
Alone with the trees, each breath of air
is an utterance, a whisper gifted to the wind,
inside recalling the bones
of bitterness and sin;
those the days of torment, sliced skin
on razored leaves. In darkness
it is the flesh alone that heeds.
Stood hopeless; our thoughts like
blossoms strewn upon mud -
blown apart by the shuddering gulf
that drowned us in the flood.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 7:47 AM UTC
The sweetness of love
by night is fated to sour
as the blood drips
like dewdrops from every bower,
your face milky pale
as a lily, deathliest of flowers.
You fail to look at me, you,
steeped in your own greed
without care for my needs,
eyes close as I choke on midnight blues,
the moonlight reflecting
your every hue; those the shades
of parting, the last taste of fruit.
Alone with the trees, each breath of air
is an utterance, a whisper gifted to the wind,
inside recalling the bones
of bitterness and sin;
those the days of torment, sliced skin
on razored leaves. In darkness
it is the flesh alone that heeds.
Stood hopeless; our thoughts like
blossoms strewn upon mud -
blown apart by the shuddering gulf
that drowned us in the flood.
Request permission to use this poem