Wounds.

The Mirror.
You walk upon the shadow,
I have shed long ago.

The Man
I glide upon answers now, on wild whispers
And tended monologues,
A shield upon my shoulder,
A cape along my back,
And toes crowned with steel tips,
For the needles upon this track.

The Mirror.
Ha!
Hopeless masses rolling,
Rolling into sea,
Ships sailing to shores,
Of forgotten eternity.

The Man
White claim synergy,
Black adores the night,
And the grey shelters all intentions,
Colourless and quiet,
And so I have seen the ghouls dancing,
Chained in ethereal gowns,
Alone along the hallways
Of abandoned towns,
Eyes black as silver,
Hair white as grey,
The living they stand speechless,
Whilst the dead has their say.

The Mirror.
Do the fallen warriors of old sleep under the past?
Do the memory of blood, still stirs those broken limbs?

The Man.
The risk of running men,
Is not never running at all,
But of running so far away,
That none witness the fall.

The Reflection.
Who am I? Who am I?
Wet ink, now dry.
Who am I? Who am I?
Can the silent words cry?

Champagne Wings

Let us just lie there,
Deep in the honeysuckle hardness,
Burning souls in cigarette smoke,
In banshee fervor, that wild frenzy
Common to inhuman things,
Of which human sings, with eyes tossed into the sun.

Let us paint this pale world,
In color of our kisses,
Half stygian, half transparent,
Ashen; cinereal,
To mourn and cherish,
Each moment that perish,
Waiting to open the eye,
For the rhythm of our love,
Is no weeping butterfly,
It is the thunder of the pain, the echo of the end,
That aches, shudders, and passes,
Heavy and heartless; as magma under waves.

The shore sits silver,
Ocean dyed with nightfall,
And the bangle of moon, waiting upon the wall,
Whilst we of champagne wings,
We rise, flesh afire,
To melt into the wind,
And as rain inspire.