The sun’s dead scent rises East to West,
Melting sweet blooms from pale moon’s breath,
Flame and swallow the nighttime’s magnolia-
Igniting the poppy and un-retting colors

The small flame fretted-
As the waning light’s hues-
Balanced upon dark and light,
Upon the orange-reds and white-blues

Breeze and ice cool the sea-
Of brass-colored dirt below the sun’s beams,
Of dark-blue blood and the moon’s white streaks;
Crevasses form, and all of this bleeds

My senses wane, so I close my eyes,
Taste the sweet nectar of fiction’s tide-
From the dawn of in-between, or “middle earth”;
It seeps through my skin and creates a lust-
For dogwood silk and colored kisses-
With Eyes wide open, covered in silky off-white blisses

Thoughts of rain create salt pools,
Beneath murky greens and where roses stood
Vexed in rain’s arched bow echoing-
Brightening and killing the mimosa’s ring-
Blurring all vision--cooking all color
In the heat of a light-tendered, tall yellow flower

Yet, another... beautiful poem... And you produce these things rather quickly.
Perhaps they come to you in your dreams?



I love that stanza... I really do.

my dreams have alot of influence on my work
you will notice alot of it is dreamy lol
some times i'll wake up at night just to write some thing down so i dont forget it...they slip away so easily