A look of pure
rush and gold,
swirling with
your eyelashes,
creating sparks
of love and
wonder, overcast
in shadows of
absence and
harsh silence.
I am still
crawling, knees
burnt in the
afterglow; just
keep throwing
me your signs
sweet temptress,
I am yours.
You listened
to so and so,
say yadda-yah
about doubts
and fears you’d
never once had
before; only this
time they were
miraculously true,
we were wrong,
yet only because
it was easier.
And if that’s
your kind of game,
I guess it’s a
good thing
I’m no longer
invited to play.
In the brazen-induced hours
of a Wednesday night,
she was decadence in yellow –
falling too early to
ashes and smoke rising.
Dancing among the
sidewalk cracks, cigarettes,
broken hearts and debris –
mending the desirable
with promises of rays
galore; valiant in her efforts
of debauchery and possibilities.
She was fair and sparkling in sin,
creating charcoal as she danced;
silent brush strokes echoing
into the sobering night.
Her depravity was evaporating –
burning innocence and melting
cinders of truth in profanities
of saint-like resorts.
It was four hours past midnight;
the streets were empty
with light posts barely
creating shadows dancing
with the wind or singing
melancholy desire.
She was decadent at her best –
yellowed and glowing.
Still loved – still loved
and wholeheartedly.
Storylines in Verse 