So haunting, an angel in the cemetery. A dancer in the mausoleum of romance. Grace in a bitter fist. The blossoming of passion.
The taste of dried tobacco is a bullet between my teeth.
Beneath the full moon, a rose blooms, red and brilliant even in the gloom. Not redemption or acquittal, but a resurgence of violent reveries. The dew is cold, clear, shining with promises.
The scent of brittle cinnamon quiets my rage.
There is glass in my hands, in the ocean of my touch, unyielding and fragile. In flame of craving, glass bends, conforms to the careless grotesqueness of flesh and bone, morphing into a surrogate lover, a symbiotic spirit.
There is glass, and I turn it gently, scouring every contour, appraising every gleam. A precious thing, whispering truth against the maelstrom.
Begging for freedom.
Loose the chains and relinquish heavy bonds. Free the prisoner and send him to light of day.
Bask, gentle poet, in sunlight, and dance beneath the cold gaze of Luna.
The world is mine.
Hold it softly, and suck the blood from the open throat.