Playing Russian Roulette With Aurora
At times, you are her: Marilyn, the
misunderstood and damaged goddess.
I fear you will live out her legacy.
Bone color of the moon, you are the
haunting symphony of cicadas,
rhythm of twilight, aroma of dusk.
You have pulled the clouds over my eyes,
and even your lips tell a lie that is often
mistaken for truth.
But you are not a thin magnolia petal;
you are liberal with your love,
given yet undeserved. The unmistakable
cocked gun at the temple has become your
trademark. Is it wrong of me to be inspired
by your lack of discipline, the way you cipher
pain and use it to mold your beauty?
Oh Aurora, I would never take
part in that which drives you; I am
not ready for the bullet. Allow me
to simply kiss you, razor-tongued.
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