Pale Morns and Cruel Nights
your skin taste of juice and moss
of ripe apples and blackberries
you allow the sun to lick your lips
pushing in the tongues of light
your flavor is salt and sweet glamour
a taste of soul which is made of stones
your chest opens letting the darkness in
to kill it with your golden gleam
tear me from my nightmares
hush the moths that flutter in my heart
leaving the dust where blood should be
trembling veins in an open flesh
your tears taste like juice and moss
bitter and sweet; a delight for senses
you blossom between roses and violets
les fleurs du mal; a savior for the twilights I weave
between your pale morns and cruel nights
