Carrying a gun. . .

Lust is violent
but love is much gentler.

Lust wants to bite your lips
and dig it's nails into your bare back.
Love is kind, it will settle
for curling it's fingers in your hair.

Lust is passion. Heat :
A burning fire tearing through barren plains
called desire.
It is to crave a body threaded, entwined
with your own.

Lust will make you curl your toes.

Love is a sanctuary. Light :
A lighthouse on the scarred rocks to bring
the seafarers home.
The smouldering embers of a d… Continue

I made a wreath,
broken branches
tied with
black bows.

Violins and pianos whilst i weaved

A delicate sonata:
Quavers to make
the wind quiver.

An elegant spin of a wrist,
laced with thin white scars.
I pushed the lilies
through.

The music . . .
Stopped.
And it all fell apart

The branches crashed,
like copper cymbols making
a cacophany of sound.
The violins wailed as
white flowers swam in the mud.
All the piano keys turned grey.
and the conductor shrugged on his coat to leave. . .

and the me… Continue