Desperate, we strive to unite both sides of souls made unmanageable by time and technology, pain and war, our conjunction hearts seeking to ease from the shade, break from the blinding glare of false light. Neither black nor white, but red, they run, with copious amounts of blood. Always blood. Forever blood.
A scimitar moon slices the dunes in twain,
rippling sands in obsidian curves,
twisting mercury tinges of diamond-bright light:
A fantasy made real.
And though this throat constricts,
I take one final breath of midnight;
the mirage remains the same
of you in silks wrapped loosely,
dark eyes beaming onyx bright
with desert dangers of old.
Dangers reflected in my own.
They are the merest flashes, glimpses of eternity,
where dunes, moon, oasis and mirage
merge into the same Arabian dream.
My dream. Our Dream. Us.
Indefinite, she rises A sombre shade of grey Melancholy by her movements Spectral by the day Licking at the sunset She pokes the dawn away This ghost is acting strangely This ghost of Anna-May
A charcoal wash, her paintbrush In gloaming, she will pray To those willing to hear her To listen to what she’ll say For screaming’s not so fearsome In a misting winter bay Where she leads the dead from water As they set their feet on clay
To fear her, is to see her Unadulterated fay She who walked amongst us Now drifts here to betray The ones who marked her passing The ones who sparked foul play But most of all once lovers This man who writes to pay