mind.wolf

I felt as though, your naked skin were my own-
your flesh as a cloth would hide my tears.
And I unfathomed, the maverick and storm would
rest my head beneath the scent of your hair and
lie and wake as if born against the birth of each morning.
A garden of flowers damp from the rain’s mourning.
And to lay in whisper as your eyelashes spade-
the surface with strokes of soft wanting
could only unveil the deepness of my calling.
That which aches, is my spirit haunted.
And let the cathedrals burn- stones which were
once mountains- thrown from their heavens
only to bow at what love trumpets.
Oh and let the cathedrals burn as my cigarette
ferns and fountains- and it is you my love who
announced this, I am but a bird.