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By BlueDenim Date: 2001 Aug 31 Comment on this Work [[2001.08.31.03.38.3242]] |
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The waves are lap slap lap tapping Against the shape of my memory. This is the place of perfection, He tells me with his voice of smoke and crimson. The moon descends to tap me on the shoulder, To whisper in my ear That this is no longer a time to pretend. The color of his eyes is like the first time, As he tells me of another time, another place, Another girl. The breath of the fog Fills me with remembrance, Solace. He saturates me with a dense hope. The swans begin to sing their song, While the moon fades away, And I slip fitfully into a doomed exhileration. |