This ashen tongue…
It slithers through deceit
Like dreams of silk
Over the morning mist.
Your mouth tastes of promise;
It shimmers over mine
Until synapses burst
And blind, I cannot sift
Away the beauty from its lies.
An angel born of darkness;
Your dagger rooted in my spleen…
Around its icy blade I twist
Until my bowl bejewels yours
With tears of ruby warmth.
Yours is the serpent bite,
And mine… the rift.
*
vic briggs 