The Skin Cycle I: Midtwilight
Two stone faces
Of beasts that truly never were,
Form from marvelous nothingness,
Falling into a realm
Of divine mystification.
Held, as I am,
In the glowing-green
Foxfire-light--
Phosphorescing within
The horrid, nitrous evening...
But, there's always words
For me,
Somewhere.
And if the rings about your eyes
Grow too crimson--
Then listen well, to the inversion
Of this peaceful hum...
A blue light, so pure
It reflects
Your tears,
To mine.