I write this
fingertips to the falling wind
with an utter lack of rhyme
I cannot draw this word to word
because that beauty
belies
the pain resting
like pricking bits of flame
on every single
cellular indentation
of supple skin
This pierces me more
purposefully
Than brazen swords
Dripping from the press
Molten Metal

For when I feel the fear
and halt from running
away
I know the heart
of the place
I need to be
to exist
is a Porcelain square
or Two
A slick, smoothed with the tips
of fingers that knew
This would be
A space
In which
Hope and the death of such
Would meet a moment
More eternally binding
And the red, red dream
Would obscure the Waking World.

And we would all drip
drip
drip
Down the drain.

Because there is
No
More
Beautiful
on the tips of a driven wind.