A paper on my pillow
Blinking through nights after bleary nights
Open to injury, arms wide for mystery
A poem in the way we plot our Children's Crusade
In the face of a crushing wave, fracturing floral graves
Where’s the sport in covering the beautiful stain it makes?
Watching galaxies of planes tossed across the sky
You under the noise and you under the lights
Slower than honey, spreading sweeter than sunshine
Deep as the oceans, the dark we fall in
Without any memory the mark is still under my skin
Sweeter than honey
I think I must be blind
Drunk with the liquor of our love
And mixing it in this mortar of
Horror and surprise
Horror and surprise
The mark is still under my skin
No comments:
Post a Comment