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The sweet slash of your sugared blade
is raised from your black, satin sheath.
Saccharine stabs of molasses
rake back my tattered lace of grief,
and the sash falls slack, at my feet.
In the face of your truth and fact,
that's where I question my beliefs;
breathed into your deep crevasses,
where you beckon me, silently.
In the cup of your water's cusp,
I'll last longer without a raft.
Far past the rapids, fast and rough,
waves of doubt may separate us
from what we know as truth and fact;
shared memory, reduced to ash.
But, our ends are never the same;
however many we shall have.
Upon blank shores of fugue, I'll wake;
torn and tattered in grief's lace sash,
where a stranger unsheathes his blade,
and frees me with his practiced slash.
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Curtis
Cool! So romantic!
Tyty curtis!! ^w^^
Sphy has been sooooo slow lately its difficult to catch up with everything!
I appreciate your comments!
by xXRawr_SaurusXx; ; Report
It's hard to even comment now!
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by Curtis; ; Report