pecatrix

once a month I flay the skin from my bones and plant seeds deep in the marrow where they will never see the sun repression is the game we all play -- no jungles of emotion no grand canopies no vines, entwined just seeds, stifled, growing hard and dead beneath the skin as the ghostly fronds of could-have-been scatter on the breeze

once a month I flay the skin from my bones and plant seeds deep in the marrow where they will never see the sun repression is the game we all play -- no jungles of emotion no grand canopies no vines, entwined just seeds, stifled, growing hard and dead beneath the skin as the ghostly fronds of could-have-been scatter on the breeze

Look at her body, where the sides have split with laughter and tears.  She bleeds fairy-dust, and butterflies nest in the hollows of her ribs.  When she speaks, moths flutter from between her lips and take to the air, drying their wings in their newfound freedom. Watch him as he watches her with blind eyes that see to all of the could-be's and the dreams she cast on rising stars.  He laughs, and garnets and rubies fall in pace with sticks and stones from his lips. They touch, embrace. Hearts of clay, cracking.  See the sands come pouring out.

sonnet 1 as shadows fall by night, young lovers' dreams on wings of silver paper, do awake and fly to lands where naught is what it seems, where seas of sand leave crimson foaming wakes. and on the sand, as tides of blood give way, a beating heart, forsaken and alone, is seen and left for love another day to die between the gentle, wave-washed stones. the sun appears -- a gentle rose! -- to dawn and from their dreams, young lovers will arise with dreams once lived now fleeting, and now gone to leave a hint, a touch, of loving lies. embrace the night, oh lovers, when you wake -- the dreams where love is real and real is fake.