Soon it will be a year since we first woke up together,

Bound tightly by the magic of the promise of a new year,

Laughing quietly together about the absurdity of it all.

The day you told me you were the luckiest man on earth, to just lay by my side,

Was the day I became the luckiest woman, to love a man like you.

Mingling with

high class society

the lifestyle of the 

fabulously 

spoiled

and wealthy

poor lives enslaved

to haughty

superficiality 

Remember that poem you wrote?

The one about San Miguel de Allende?

Roses and bougainvillea everywhere

Gauze and weight and whispers rampaging...

Your fingers were lithe then,

Imagination, supple.

The way our skin stretched

The headboard cracked

Each inch of equinox another nail in the coffin.

We never boarded the plane.

Passports expired,

The amethyst sank into a sock drawer,

13 years hovered and burrowed into bellies.

This Last Glacial Maximum of love.

The seas pulled back and locked in ice.

Land exposed, cracked and fertile.

Waiting for a comet to strike.

If only your mother hadn't died.

If only the fire had smothered itself

In your despair, 

Instead of roaring back to life.

Maybe then,

I would have forgotten the jasmine in your words

The way they made me overlook incarnation

And that we once held meteors between our lips.

He's like a cup of coffee,

Early in the morning,

As the sun breaks the clouds,

And birds chirp in sleepy protest.

Waking up with him

Is like seeing the world,

For the first time,

Every morning.

Every subtle smile,

Every warm "hello,"

Every soft, tender touch,

You opened up another door,

Getting closer to my guarded heart.

You made lies sound so beautiful,

Pretty, toxic words, knotted in my heart,

My name was a butterfly on your lips,

Home was your safe embrace,

It never felt like a cage.

You whispered wonderful words,

Wove them in my mind,

I followed every light suggestion,

The world would be a better place,

It was fate, you said,

Fate is a cruel, deadly, monster.

I became something more,

Something less,

An assassin under your control,

Your broken, mended weapon,

Lost and found,

Never looking for a way out.

It was a heavenly game,

A love out of books,

Until reality came,

And took out your hooks,

I saw the hell behind your illusion,

But the light arrived too late...

I am the last poohbah

of the screaming blue

messiahs of the old

underground...

I love you, it's true

but I am the assassin

of all that is love...

Making quick work

in total silence

and magic dust

that turns all that is holy

and beautiful

and true

into the pure shit

and crying misery

of I'll forever be

alone...

She walks in darkness of the night

With clear thoughts and cloudy skies;

The worst of society, its blight

Diverges from her soul and her eyes; 

Yet so beautiful she is in moonlight

Which the beautiful day promptly denies.

A little more makeup used, and if less,

Ten times more ugly and zero grace

A knotty tempest in her black tress,

Which drapes across her face;

Where pure thoughts yearn to express,

How so repulsive is their resting place.

And on that woman and on her brow,

So rough, so fragile and ineloquent,

The smiles that repulse and that glow,

Show me days of madness spent,

A mind in wreck as all below

A tormented heart yearning to be innnocent!

(Rewritten poem of  She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron. Comment what you think this rewritten version is about!)

Darkness surrounds us all,

He watches as we fall,

He will encroach upon our heart

With wishes to never depart.

But darkness shrinks to flame

So the Viper hides from blame,

So the gray will fade away.

Darkness goes today.

Until Eden is destroyed,

When our emotions become void.

The flame will always glow,

With the purity of snow.