Spoken

icicles drip slowly off the windowpane
and my mind has gone cross
only he'd know what that means as he slips below the moss.

to claim the raven's shadow
I'll evoke simple memories
I'll erase the mysteries that spilled
a peaceful snow upon our histories.

let the giants beat their drums me and the red robin sleeping in the mums
waiting out the wintry season
dressing the notes of our scars with love
rebirthing secrets to be told here and above.

heart going dumb from the steel blades
of futures threatening me to no avail
itching wrists bleeding neverending tales
over clouds Ill sleep with the nightingales.

the harlot, the concubine
prostituting herself to the moonlight
ugly dreams that fight 
the illusionary rain storms of time.

in their singularity defined
hoping the broken mirrors
portray an infinite memory
of a perfect

imaginary life

even when black clouds of smoke
threaten to tear me away I shall hold on tightly
to 

the faith that bound me here

to the world that spoke.