Because I’ve done it again this time
The measured silence, scattered rhyme
A different space, dull and fresh
Another arson of the flesh
In a snow-lipped crevice, a sunken flame whistles dry.
Because my envy for his finger
The coils of steam that lisp and linger
Around his mouth that reeks wry smile
I’d ring a rose a short half while
And have him beg for unsought shelter from the open sky.
Because the heather meadow of his hair
His crumbling gaze, cerulean stare
Echoes sharply against the oak
That tapped its talons when he spoke
He is a forager of words and splintered letters into dust.
Because his name paints cityscapes
His paper trails leave ring-worm shapes
He is part and parcel of this place
Of broken china, victorian grace
But i shall find him soon in a verse reflected room.
Does he know first that I am after,
A slow bruise, a soft disaster.
Here this time and gone thereafter
Hanging limply from the rafters.
Ask me once and I will run, and leave you with a smoking gun.