long that road & more
i still do not know
where it will lead
i have my doubts that
the path heads north
i still do not know
our hands become expressions
reflections of our thoughts
feathering fans before eyes
fingers return to masks
long that road & more
i still do not know
what we will find in end
i still do not know
what ghosts this dreaming house
sleepwalking our sleep?
trysting our sweat-damp sheets?
giving hallow our hearth in creep?
pale her flesh, her hair raven flow
barefoot slipping through
eyes open to ever unawake
passing of room to room
gazing out to lune and hedge
through windows stained of dust
would we to kiss her lips
in that dreaming house of rust
barefoot of skin
etched spidered line thin
phantasm and trysting
she slips through at
the old wytchingtree
waiting on the moon
her embrace mine november
the only real remain
slender pale her fingers,
hair her ebon black
her crimson at my throat
here, only sleepwalking
dawns the midnight sun
only slowtalking brings light
whispers,
you cannot begin to know
those days where words
lose all meaning in
a dizzy haze of dreaming
and fingers trace lines
of morning dew across
your pale skin under
the rise of the sun
badh touched my shoulder
as i held the remains of
old friends in a wooden box
i turned to the battle crow
as she leaned forward
laying her night beak
on my pale lips in kiss
numbing my flesh to tingle
well after i woke under
the reapers moon
a hilltop kiss
above old creek wending,
tangled of vale
all grains gone gold
in autumn hours with
a sun hung low
burning within, without
you whisper a secret
for me to keep
my head on your breasts,
slumber come tomorrow
fingernail tracing moon shadows
cast on your pale, white thigh
wondering why we must ever
only embrace this way in mists
No campfires for me last night, I’d decided. Instead, I elected to wander away into the day that followed flame as I left the camp behind: Sun blazing on one side, Moon cool and pale on the other. Maple’s yellow leaves fell mystic around me, an autumn kind of sakura celebration lacking only the plum wine for the stream ran beside me, falling over stones and breaking white the reflection of the sky.
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