PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In the prime of the day

The sun but flees pale as fear

And pale as the fever boiling, prowling

And we're but erased

As the candles cry their wreched lives away

To scurry hind the drain

Waiting out the pale parade

The tilting of the silken moment

Of making love but boiling

Flow past the lid of my heart

To lose myself in my fresh ink

The wood of my marrowed bones

But drunken limp with sap

My mind but buried in the desert

Fishing for the grandest gift

Oh, to lose myself

Oh sweet saliva

Drooling down the lovened chins

Oh, pale the fear that sucks the moisture up

And pale the cold moon yearling bright