The same intoxication of another moonlit day. The same reprising solace of dusty unseen rain. Falling through my fingertips. The ever-present aim, of the twilight-fitted reed. Echoing refrain, of the night-found scarlet steed. Falling through my fingertips. As the autumn carried pine and wind. The cherry blossomed another sin. Falling through my fingertips. Caressing the stained-glass cylinders, of moonsilver chimes. Flourescant from the chantings, of never-said goodbyes. Falling through my fingertips. Searching for an exit in the climaxing tight-rope taiga. Circling the stars in a desperate-soaking hunch. Needing something to touch. And something to listen. Falling through my fingertips And the silk-haired braids of the night-shone platinum maiden. Sniffing in the vice, and tasting every bloodstain. Falling through my fingertips. And the golden fields that poets made, And the rifles peaking each soul’s brigade. Falling through my fingertips. And as the servants set fire to the storm, passed the hour. Falling through in veins. And as the lightning baron tossed in shame, the supple harlot’s last cliché. Falling through in lace. And as enticing strained keystroke came, and pushed aside the daisie’s wave, Falling through the counter-rhyme in every stroke of ink and sodomy-stained lead became behind the wretched flower stem. And all the while the countess framed the salte’d oyster, enwrapping every phalus-eye and chalice, shy, of the lantern’s sighing out behind became inside, enflamed, the blind and wrapped around the colours stains. dancing inside out. Falling through my fingertips. A little fall of rain.Birth sign: Libra
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