Black Cinnamon
Opium delirium sets us into night.
The moon drops its face
from darkened skies
to look upon our souls.
Flesh on flesh buried in purified sheets,
blinding white in candlelight.
Lips meet lips
with a ghostly sense of rose.
Black cinnamon drifts
into stagnant air.
The sound of heavy breath
lingers in empty space.
Naked bodies twist
into misshapen creatures,
pressing hearts
between pages of heavy books.
Key tucked into a pocket
as lips seal shut.
Words drift silently
into emptiness.
A thief of desire rides,
searching a pocket to pick.
Thank you for reading.
I love the dark atmosphere of this one. Quite sublime.
The thief of desire is a brilliant metaphor. The sensory details in this poem are incredible. I can almost smell the cinnamon and feel the weight of the silence.
Loved this piece.
HVR recommends you I am glad I found your page !