The surface remains intact.
The heart remains intact.
Each culminating inch of frame and cell,
Vowed upon and burnt through to the cinder,
Is now frozen, ashen mass.
Yet, the mere image is once again—
It is truly built upon—
And, even with no ember, remains intact.

Lightning.  
Brutally shocking, burning, destroying.
A sudden flash, out of nowhere with striking speed and power.  

Then thunder.  
A rumble,
low, distant, and spine-tingling; a hovering fear, a looming threat.  
Or a crackle--
fierce, sharp, wild, unpredictable.  
A jolt.  
A deafening, heat-stopping jolt.  
Not just near you, but inside you.  
Burning in your chest, pulsing through your blood, freezing on your skin, screaming in your mind.

It ends, but it doesn't leave.  It remains, hovering in the air and burned into your soul.  It echoes.  It fades, but it remains.

The cold bites my nose
And the frost chills my lungs
And the wind is stinging my face.

But outside in this moment I'd rather be here than in any more comfortable place.

I do know lip-reading
But that smile
Demands for tactile

We all have demons
mine just so happen to have
FACES
and
LUNGS
and
HANDS.
An eye watches me
disembodied
floating a little way from my face.
I can feel something
living in my neck,
and it curls around my spine,
unsettled.
THE EYES THAT LIVE IN MY SCALP blink,
constantly blink.
it aches.
they blink together to some unknown metronome.
I try to ignore THE HANDS that grab at my head and shoulders,
gripping the sides of my head,
pressing into my temples.
My demons loom over me and BREATHE,
Cold gusts,
So cold..
I tremble in fear of the man who travels through dreams
and wonder how much HE KNOWS
and wonder if HE CAN SEE ME now
and is he GOD or DEVIL?
for now he is my DEMON
and on the back of my neck
I feel his EYES.

The starry lit clouds
shy and shinny
captured on the
nearby cherry tree branches

reflected your Apollo locks glitter
you pressed me on a barren trunk
your torso became a burning tree
trying to cool in a pond full of lava

Your tongue played rose~***
mary magic ~on white satin hills.
My back hurt a bit, scratched,
the blouse finger blown, open.

And then. . . the real tempo started to begin. . .

Your touch closes my eyes
I let your words traumatise my mind
Your breath dampens my skin,
Provoking apocalyptic thoughts from within

The trickle of your touch
Is eating at my mind,
I keep your desires fed,
Thirst and hatred intertwined

Disrupting my insides
My lips escape discordant harmonies,
As in you I confide,
That the truth's foreign to my eyes

You remain my fixation
A sinister hallucination
Occurrences of formination
Are my self-rehabilitation