Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Opening up the wrist of love.
(Marra’s words my intentions hidden in the lines)
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon.
The night is turning, over and over in his broken mind. The pale white of her skin the pain in her eyes. Her beauty spilt trough our hearts. Her frailty only timely seen.
She was the muse; she was perfection and infectious need. I would have died for her; I would have killed for her. The time we had was so slow so short; perfection will always be short lived. How would the hours pass us by if the minutes never arrived?
Her wrist opens in love, my need for her so painful, never ending, always haunting.
How oft, when men are at the point of death, Have they been merry! Which their keepers call A lightning before death.