Whom About Should I Write Tonight

Whom about should I write tonight? The warrior, the painter or the lover? It is but a gust of wind That love is, it will blow away The old set of eyes, turned weary And replace a sparkling blue nascent waterfall. How many hands do I have to feel? Or let them feel The crests of my darkest desire… They don’t know the shears I have, Robbed of touch and comprehension, Men will pull out their bleeding, blunt hands And whine for the softness which took away their fingers. Whom about should I write tonight? There is but a certain sadness in the sky, All the stars I have known, Liked my darkness because it made them shine brighter, Drops of blood on a haywire pack of snow I changed my colour from pure white To a shade of pretended pinkish glee, In my maze, the drops were lost, And like an inviting bed To lovers trapped in an unbroken room, I wait for blood to drop on me again. I’m sorry my love, I couldn’t write about you, You are but the obscuring fog in a tired dawn, Disappearing in my morning sun.