Her hair is a whirlwind of butterflies,
a dance of flame against porcelain moonflesh
accenting each step in eights across the canvas that is my mind.
Her voice is a siren's song on
the bitter mantra whsipered among the branches
of life's many forests.
Her graceful moonflesh is a perfection
steel has never known before now,
has never known before now and
never will know again.
She is Juliet unknowing,
my unrequited obsession dear,
a torment more seductively addicting
than the dahlia image black on my mind.
And she is Juliet in dreams,
my Annabel Lee unbreathing;
her lips' cold kiss beckon
harsher than any banshee could call.
She is my dearest Dahlia, my love
come home eternally now to me,
and sublte memory of Chelsea's
grin she gave me thin,
just east of Charing Cross.
And now in memory looking back,
back on my dear Juliet,
I miss that smile, that perfect
empty gaze she gave,
and wonder if ever again I'll live to see
Juliet smiling, smiling back at me.