I wasn’t a jealous
rose until we met:
you suffuse
darkness, you abuse senses.
I want you for my
own, unlocking for
me; so much
ecstasy, when a mind
torches. You stir feelings,
life is uneasy,
I never felt a
woman like you. Days
lost in storms,
asking about town, if
they see my lonely
star, bring her ink.
She writes in
spirit, gathering berries,
making juices. The
oak tree is witness
to our passion,
eager with pictures, I
can’t beg, I want
to beg, it still accuses.
At evening,
running in meadows, tears
moisten soil; at
morning, looking on,
faceless pillows,
emptiness burning,
calling gently, voices
low, so unfelt.
Born to tragedy, upon
a thought, most
mirages are
see-through. I met in oils,
painted in
acrylics, it must come to
life: violent
music, metallic winds.
You seem vivid,
like colors in rain; I
leap in private,
concerned about prints;
a tender leaf, an
ant for company,
so much a forest,
so great a banshee.
You leave me
walking, peeling an
orange; you come
to me, rushing in
passing; you
become lightning, fire,
drenched in aura,
moving motion.
