Monday 21 February 2011

The Season of Potions

Stranded winter, frosted rose
Lit aflame by your breath.
My girl, you’ve left a trail
Of melted frost
That leads to your liquid womb.
Oh would I love you,
Like the sound of a sword
Slicing the cold wind.
But I’m afraid.

I’m afraid of the smoke,
The only letters form question marks.
My girl you have wounded me
With a summer afternoon
Raining towers of heat.
I have time till the smoke-stick burns out.

Sheltered spring nights,
When I could chase your naked form
Through wine tunnels.
My girl, you’ve left a trail
Of anguish and
It leads me upwards.
And I’m climbing your smoke trails,
Tracing your moonlight,
And framing you halo with kisses…

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