Goodnight My Love
Now the paintings lost,
my only body drowning,
a desire in my mind,
one flaming canvas full of bloody brush strokes.
The purchased kiss where her lipstick lingers,
a chill like a razor strike to my wrist,
to engulfed by every delicious beat of war,
still pulling the blade from my heart.
A sickness dripping from my lips,
the poison destroying and saving me,
an antidote for the cure,
the next past is but to come.
Scratched patterns litter the skin,
etchings shed the blood of all betrayed,
feelings become flashes,
how silent is the proceeding.
Laughter so disturbed,
tears of joy so scalding,
troubled remorse for such lust,
my passion is my crime.
Copyright © Margaret Sherbourne | Year Posted 2006
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