This body is a map.
Run your fingers along my veins
Hum along to the steady beat
That worms into your brain
These lines run in many directions
But they all start in the same place
This highway won’t lead to Heaven
But it can give you a taste.

The pale night and the ghastly wind upon the skin,
And shiver by the sliver of ice needle pierce through the bone,
For this is the essence one felt by the beauty of words injected into the lungs.

Fluffy snow illuminates as the tunes become entwined by the inner beats,
And from flakes to crystals shattered like hammer onto ice,
Such is the force of all of whom dealt with love and war.

Nothing is but a straight line to a journey unwritten,
For bumps and bruises are only a flesh wound you would nod with a smile,
And all is but the fairness of the bloom of petal to yet another summer.

Hot gold runs a winding stream on the inside of a green bowl.

Yellow trickles in a fan figure, scatters a line of skirmishes, spreads a chorus
of dancing girls, performs blazing ochre evolutions, gathers the whole show into
one stream, forgets the past and rolls on.

The sea-mist green of the bowl's bottom is a dark throat of sky crossed by
quarreling forks of umber and ochre and yellow changing faces.

Don't let me
Find hope
In words that are
Hollow
And think that
My footsteps
Form patterns
You will follow

Don't say
That I am lovely
Like stars and
Moonlit skies
When we both know
That I am only
Tear stains and
Sad eyes