Wednesday, March 9, 2011
My Love. II. Beginning
your beginning is full of the pungent taste of moss, and the consuming sting of salt, you become the glow of the moon that rides the mystery of birth from the foam of tides, to the whispers of the darkness that filled my lips before there was a desire for you.
i tumble to your darkness trailing the promise of stars, bound to the roots of rock and tree, i voyage to the unfolding of the one mystery of tide and blood. the ache of salt blinds my eyes, as the air of my hands grasps the raging sea of you,