Cheveux noirs,
mystérieux comme le soir,
sachez que
pour vos yeux verts
mon coeur est ouvert

* * *    

Open

Hair of blackness,
Mysterious as the night,
Know this:
To your green eyes
Open is my heart

The dusty colours,

Lure my eyes to the deep void,

Where deathly eyes lurk.

I shall not call myself
a poet
to thee
Instead
I shall allow you
to walk by
and judge me
like the bottle of wine
you did not buy
because my label
appears plain.

Simple
on the outside
I may be
but within
I'm bursting
with flavors
you can't even begin
to see.

And I won't whisper
all
your misgivings

I'm sure
Muscato
is sweet
I know
fancy
and perhaps
giving

You won't know all
by looking at me
even once you're in
tasting to try
the lingering spice
leaves you
craving
drinking me dry.

and even then..

Moths—they are nearly all comprised of the same tender characteristics: empty colors that've somehow been ****** away like the nectar they digest, fuzzy abdomens that crumble within the softest pinch, and powder encrusted wingspans that fray with countless beatings from the wind. I have come to recognize that there are people like Her who dwindle within themselves among all of us, unheard; enthralled by color that doesn't exist to the naked eye, but rather to an imaginative mind and a battered soul. She is The Moth Girl and she, too is the epitome of simpler things. With Her fair skin and enchanting, grey eyes that **** you in with a single glance; lips so chapped and brittle that they're nearly as drained of pigment as the rest of her. I've decided that She is the reason oblivion hasn't doomed us all and obliterated our world to dust. I've imagined Her as oblivion itself, annihilating other galaxies and collecting the discolored soot from each explosion to sift it over the wings of every moth that has ever been criticized. With this, I have concluded that every moth must be a victim.
⠀
But, if given the chance, would they transfigure?
⠀
I've undergone the thrill of witnessing these moths revolutionize into harlequin humming birds that thrive at Her will. Wings that were once littered with dust are now far too rapid and swift for manifestation. The Moth Girl — She remains a flower of a woman, though now She is sprouting with petals that burst with color; filled with nectar sweeter than She. They are all rich with vibrancy.
⠀
With it, they have concluded that it's not much different being evocative.
⠀
After everything, I have decided that they were blooming with color all along, and it was the rest of us that simply couldn't see it.

The gleaming pair of crimson red eyes reflect nothing but suffering.
While it's true that those sulfur feathers take flight,
tear holes in the wind, and pierce the night sky,
it's only to get your attention.

Does he have your attention?
He knows he has your attention.
From branch to branch he stares, learns, stalks,
and casts doubt into your impressionable acumen.

You know nothing, and nothing is his forte.
You haven't caught up, but those infinite pools of blood are headed your way.
Don't be afraid, don't scurry, don't cry;
By the end of the night, you'll have seen all,
and you'll be just another in the crimson tide.

How esoteric?
No one could figure this out
Mysterious and puzzling
As situations come about
The people are speaking
But, there is lots of ambiguity
Unless we remove these clouds
No one will see clearly