False Indigo
Your touch, a gentle whisper in the night;
Your hand, soft, grazes my throat like a ghost,
And despite my hopes for a spark of light,
Your darkness is what I seek out the most.
Your lips, like fine oak-aged arsenic on ice
Smooth, bitter tragedy beyond your years.
They taste of menace; the menace is nice.
It reminds me of my nightmares and fears.
Your eyes, False Indigo; beauty so deep.
Baneful glories atop; spikes underneath.
They hold me entranced, your's forever to keep.
They lie with each glint; I keep my belief.
Your soul, blood diamonds; gorgeous, cruel and sold.
My soul, tarnished, with this dark love so cold.
Copyright © Kristen Varwig | Year Posted 2011
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