It's an indwelling of time mattered fractions,
The warped symbolism of lust we trailed on this bed.
A red letter to stab you in the heart;
But without your mind it would all mean nothing.
We say the blood pumper makes that lurch when we feel pain;
When reality is its the surge of electrical wires in the brain.
When you take that key plunged in my chest,
And start the machine of crave going again.
That drive we've mastered through handling ourselves,
When we mix our blood and love into pools on the bathroom floor.
A pretty picture it makes in the linolium;
As we slip back into our pajama pants and our pride.
Connect The Arts Guild : Poetry,Writing,Theatre,Art,Music
Where artists of all types gather to discuss and share art, writing, dance, music, and performance art.
