The trees stand out like lightening,
silver against the white washed knuckles of the sky.
The moon, your luminous face,
hides behind the dark fingers of your hair.
The roses that grow from my chest are a darker red than the dried blood upon your face.
Your eyes are tiny lacerations in the sky adrift in the shrieking winds of night.
Burning moths that drink from the flames of candles huddle hungrily around your lips and drown in the tears of your cloud filled skeyes.
Like black lillies your words lie amongst the pink lotus that drift in the light.
Accentuated by and seperate from the world they drift from the twisting trails of your hair,
floating like sure footed hawks to feed on me.
They float among the pools of sweat that fill the surface of my body,
black birds among the blacker red of my budding roses.
My eyes like lost marbles roll amongst the silver leaves dancing through the roots of the lightning trees.
Pools of wax come drooling from heaven, binding our bodies as one until my oceans reflect your torn and bloodied skies, your face eclipsing my life.