The Neophyte
Dreams of feathers,
hang from peacocks naught.
Ones lips are sealed.
the other always open.
Twins,
and both have pointed ears.
One can not but help to hear.
Standing upright a marble blue veined face.
The breasts of the one,
serpents around come out in the open, forever hidden.
All their faces suckle cold nipples pointed like spears.
None borne forth have warm milk suckled.
Slender candle tipped the likes of which
pulled in pulled out.
The sucbus is
running out our tounge against whomever will.
Thinking that you spoke but never have.
Masks between fires cold desire.
Quilled ink pink feather tipped black pierced.
Breasts would again be full but emptied are.
Dark moody blues are turning white
now black against between each falling star.
That which never was but now it is be still.
Contrast never lost the blind have always have seen.
This dream to one by all whom hide inside,
revealed to none but call to him in sleep i hide inside.
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