Monday, January 9, 2012

Morning

The wings over her eyes,
flap erratically,
as crumpled sleep,
makes its final flight.

Her eyes quietly blossom,
tiny rivulets of red,
crawling towards an island,
muslin black in a white sea.

She rolls over,
in cleansed hate,
and a pail full of black,
tumbles over the soggy pillow.

Hands outstretched,
in a lazy eternity,
she hopes to build a cave,
around her growing flame.

She then peeps out of,
a swirling sea of warmth,
cheeks dipped in blush,
a storm brewing on her lips.