Moan of the moon
I am in love with the moon
but pledge to abhor this night
as I sleep on a poignant pillow~
soaked with the perfumes
of forlorn lilies and
half-written farewells...
drizzling from these ashen eyes
are the pensive dreams,
that refused to recede
from the shore of my aching soul...
perhaps, the black cat moan
was meant to mourn
the death of the disguised devil,
but I let it burn,
dear reaper ~
and those evil-epitaph trinkets
kept twinkling with
their treacherous teeth
that ripped my silhouette apart
like a samurai lost
in the deserted oblivion
of onyx-fuelled fantasies
and slashed seams of sighs ...
so, let us stargaze
beyond those blazing blisters
and weep with the chrysalis comets
that left me wearing
a garland of golden cocoons
and until death do us part,
I'll meet you in camellia valleys
worn, weathered and withering ~
like a sharp flower
slit with the silent sword of sunless spice,
walking on the web of woeful wishes,
asking the scorched sky
to hold my inkless insecurities,
and let me be
high on hemlock honey,
one last time...
because all those years,
I remained feverish
with your shaking schemes
that withheld bleeding blames
and in the flame
of faltering mistakes,
I confess to the sienna letters
lamenting in salted sands,
searing with your
far-sailing scents
that I only lived to love you,
O' darling...
the ghost of me.
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