You are the first song of the morning dawning blankness upon my chest
as the city spills its dreary grin -
the ghost of Love lurks by the door
and her hopeful stare is frightening
There’s a smell of art as I lift the lid
but this shrine is a curse of a gift
for my pain is as sharp as its keys
reminding my hands of sirens
‘Mother dear, I cannot work the loom’
since all the colours I weave bear the same eyes
since my skin will be forever torn and sewn
to cover your poor son’s wings
Summer is fading and so am I;
there is peace enough but my heart is a stallion
Oh innocence, can you hear the sobbing walls?
The blinding sound of sunset blessed the hammers with her haunting presence
Purity is a buzz detuned and fragile;
her arms are now too small for my agony
(the ghost of Love lurks by the door -
I stare at the ceiling
with a mouth full of bees)
