After autumn strips the Oaks
The still air screams with the crunch of dead leaves
  .as death seeps out of the soiL....

Sunlight streams throughout
incessant steel pleasure
Your shadow rejoices

The little bit of you
I still taste on the tip of my tounge,
is a layer of flavor
that whispsers from the shadows.
A brush of your skin
is a thousand years alone
in a pit of pure bliss.
Cloaked in the scent
of your proximity,
an image that guides my hands
and my lips,
through the realms of my dreams.
You are the reason senses exist.

A Mushroom
Is a Flower
that got tired of waiting
for a gypsy sun
who had found other pastures
to spend his time shining on.

Of all the things I've never touched
I'm saddest that I cannot touch your mind.
Gradually it will **** me.