The first piece I wrote.
The mouth of the being opened up in ancient fashion
and from it poured the truths of life.
We could not hear it as we clasped each other, lightly bathed
in the paling, squalid glow of another Blackbird Moon.
Our eyes clouded with visions of mans head
on bestial bodies, flowing rivers of ebon silk
and the red taste of ecstasy washed over our lips staining them
with the curse of life's blood.
To share in our discomfort we pulled close,
pressing what-might-have-been between our lips
as if to compress our loneliness to a grain of sand.
Your eyes carried the mystery of sentience: a gift you could not share,
further reason for me to turn upwards and curse
what twist of fate led me to this scorpion den.
Imbibing the bitter poison removed the veil from my slumbering oculus
and I fancied a vision of the world on the head of a pin,
precarious and spinning, as atomic a particle as any.
Violet eyes met my raven hued discs
and you kept the world safe behind lashes of snow.
Had I known the repercussions of our evening's events,
I would have danced alone.