2/6 the day i died

starved of love and exiled from the kingdom

of God, of faith, of religion

and thrown into the pits of punishing ignition.

but in the pits of the punishing ignition,

we were embraced by a strange warmth,

from the rising flames of the hellish hearth,

we rose and for once we were loved.

the fires in hell warmed us.

dead lips, dead eyes, dead skin, dead hair, dead love.

death is her and everything that no longer breathes.

her calls are alluring and lures you to your demise,

do not wander into the forests if you do not want to die.

those pale fingers have held the dagger

that took the souls of many of the unfortunate,

and be with her to become part of the unfortunate.

then they wail, "Oh save us!" into the hollow, deep hells

of her spider webbed and dark, empty shell.

but do remember this forever;

her dagger has only been drawn in vengeance,

summer bled orange on her lips,

her eyes; rich soil with lavender haze.

roses pressed on her cheeks like bookmarks,

inbetween pages and inbetween barks.

her skin of the sunbaked dirt,

golden curls with stains:

sky blue and carnation pink,

evenings purple and meadows green.

where she goes, life follows,

like a curious apprentice,

dusty brown rug.

sunlight snuck in to catch a glimpse

of my lover, oh sweet Georgi,

hands of whom painted by colours,

spaces inbetween fingers from holding brushes,

and dark eyes from approaching deadlines.

i could never love another like my sweet Georgi.

when the earth falls silent,

long into winter, everything's no more violent;

that will be when i think of you,

like candy, raspberry, the way you loved it.

summer passed by like a breeze,

through your hair, i was so envious of it.

a leaf came down to hide your reflection on the puddle,

it was getting cold, i wanted to head inside

but i paused for a moment to watch you smile,

mumbling, "Autumn's arriving"

If you told me to write a poem

of summertime hearth,

autumn puddles or monsoon heartbreaks,

i would only be able to write a good line

going on for about two verses

but if it was a saturday night,

and the moon is whispering sweets to me again

and im hidden away under my blanket i call my home,

i would be able to write far more verses for you,