Faraday

I'll craft an end, out of wooden arches. And we'll saunter

into the mist, beckoning the thick smog winds our way, and past.

For we'll be singing to the moon as sailors are known to chant;

our melodies will mix in the skies above, and trail into one another

as you and I have done. Taking hold and hands are taking. We'll breathe

in a moment, and you will stare at my pain.

My luscious pain - unpleasantly pleasing

my mind, and your soul crying in prospect. I cannot wait for your hands upon my side,

brushing over, your shot of teeth and wrathing scratch

drawing blood and renewing my melody. For as melodies go,

once happy as they were, I have now regained this feeling, skewed.

A memory of a sunset, leaving once more. I wish us to be the Northern Lights when

we next meet. We have our subject to dwell on, and you have my lips,

so touch my mouth and take care to keep a smile upon my scars.

 

Reviews

[...]

. wow ...
. this is an exquisitely beautiful symphony ...