Etch in me the feathers that fall
Like leaves from a tree and down with it all
When rosebuds cake from the caverns of my throat
And well up in my chest, my breath to gloat
And to my lungs, my blood runs black
Past every rung that defines my back
Swathe in me the old honey-wine,
The red-ridged rivers of roseblood and thyme
Whereby one day those dull paradisic dreams
Can go to Hell with those old sadistic fiends
And as for those romantic little plots
Who are put foot to the fire to slowly rot
One might say it was the flash of the sky
Through a lightning rod, fire spit on high
There goes the forsaken love that lies
To rest in dreams wherein the will dies
—-
Photo Credit:
Paige Heaney