Burning spine, rose petal lips.
Typewriter tongue in the night,
My lungs breathe fog from dust.
The courthouse heart plays me a choir,
Fallen kingdoms whistling in the wind.
Of rolling hills and campfire strings, I sing.
Ever soft, always quiet. There's a poet in me
That's always pulling at the tar from my blood.
Sinking into water's depths, my earthen crystal
Reflects upon tainted star beds and folktales.
Riddle me with your silver tongue as I speak,
My own wit uncanny with yours as we fail to
Connect with each other's two-toned words.
You confuse me as I do you, so you mustn't fret
Over the ground and sea swallowing me whole.
Enveloping my frozen heart as static buzzes
In your deft ears, my eyes adept in waking.
May we always travail on backs of stone and
Wings of doves, our feathers tousled. Bled skin
And tired bones, footsteps aching yet still as
Time. This hourglass cradles our weary souls.
Good night, sweeping meadows of stardust.
Good morning, golden flames of dragon's fate.
I shall find iron in your jaded well of lies.
For you enrapture me with your fickle truth,
Spilling like ink to penned paper, evermore.