Sunday, 27 December 2015

dear you,

you with half closed midnight eyes,

I grew you with my own two hands,
strung together the syllables
rolling from your tongue

and beyond the boughs of leafless trees
stretched the night
embellished with salveged dreams

to spell out the language of gods.

1 comment:

tentaculitidae said...

the small transparent moments between one colour and the next. touched by the sound of breathing between words. snowflakes in your mouth. but if the walls are full? all the way down to the wine cellar, up to the garden and those solid slabs of rock lit up by torches scorching the edges of post-it notes and the sprawling calligraphy of old ivy.