Tempest Of The Moon

Through the bleeding tides

My longing for you

Has brushed its tail

Against the nape of

My bare neck.

I tried and torn by

The hours kept in

Flaming breaths sunlight

Does breathe upon me.

There is no faultiness

About your grave; yet,

Murky waters seep through

My corpse when I dance

On the isle of bliss with your

Spirit running through the

Cold.

I shiver somewhere below

The tempest moon depths

In the guise walking towards

Me.

Cannot you meet me with

Parting tongues instead of

Drowning me in your flame.

I only wish to adjust your

Lantern burning its fires

In your visage.

I’m forever bound to your

Soul.

I try to flee, but cannot.

There is no more erasure.

Where has the blade landed

When you tossed into the air?

It has pierced my flesh.

I bleed out my song with

Each tear I cry.

Severed is my rhyme for

A bitter herb I eat.

Can you not fold your

Sorrows on someone else’s

Head?

Why do you bind them to me?

I’m only on in the glittering snow.

Do you not come into my realm

When thirst for consciousness must

Be quenched?

Do I not suck poison from your

Breaths, and dissipate your lull?

Where is you miser to behold forsaken

Tides which crash against your shore?

Is there no grace in my calling?

I only know how to recapture rhythms

Long gone in the dance of the heavens

Beaming their eyes upon me.

I lather my sorrows with the tears

Of the white winged dove to procure

Each melody I hear in my mind.

There is not another offering to hide

Your shallow creed.

However blissful the tides be fed,

An hour is danced to in soulful

Cries to end your bleating tune.

Dream no more, my lulling knight.

For you shall not cause me path

To pitter against the wind.

Only your words of enlightenment

Can cross these channels.

Bleed out your song unto the night,

And I shall follow your towards

Your calling.

For it shall then be my calling.

Our paths shall merge into one.

By every extricate vessel a song

Is sung to glory in the highest.

Fever is an allowance.

Grab hold of it, my tower.

For every fire growing inside

Your soul, there shall rise a

Phoenix from its ashes.

He shall drink up bitter

Songs and wash them through

His own soul to heal all wounds

Belonging to the heart.

Shower ever wound with

A dowers seed.

Dial the Lord to bring your

Fruit into earthly stride.

From there I shall cleanse

The soot away from my tired

Eyes.

If only I could quench fear

Cutting dying souls in the mast.

For ever quick there is a noun,

For ever noun there is a plight,

And for every plight there is a

Fire burning down frolicking

Walls.

Heed my thunder when loneliness

Dances above your head, and divide

All illusion if you are to conquer.

For only illusion can hold you bound

To your vessel when your lost in

A gull filling your pockets with sand.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016

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