Countanence

Counting the will power you have, a theft, drunken and alone to be left. Speaks words of wisdom to me, your ramifications of the world hued in dynasty; By the fleeting breeze of you eyes. Tornadoes thunder in your wake, a candle flame inside the sun, dead in tracking fickleness. I loathe for the place of meeting, sun and moon erect, overt darlings that they are, b******s they hide. For the passing interlace of my own; for desire is nothing more than a memory in the waking threats, faked, consumed by the wreckage.

A home in a house where the mouse can rome, known to the abyss, simplicity in its kiss. Dusted fortunes quake, crouching over your breath, heady sigh. Cobwebs of your face, harsh to the onlooking ocean, tears of ice flame to your brow. Refrain from speaking only of the truth, feeding on the ice-bury sweetness of my bones, in that house of a home. 

Reviews

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Ok, I sense a rage, a consuming anger in this well constructed poem. (I can't answer messages on this phone)
Your obvious intelligence shines through your written word