Beckoning

A soft touch, A warm hand, A gleeful look, and an open heart.
The Winds are changing, My lips are sealed.
Bronze light shadows the landscape.
The cold air threatens. I shan't be swayed.
Night sneaks over the ground...

Greyed eyes, withered by time, understand death and love lost.
Yet I stand fevered, excited for something still not birthed.
I've wished to be the vestiges, marked myself amongst souls I've crossed.
Forgotten is who fear I've become.
As the new season docks, the old leaves wither along with my aspired thoughts.
The golden night is the silver lining for a man weakened by rot.


Age had not gripped me. I stand with back straight.
A proud look in his mother's eye. She cannot see
the lust I feed;
something I wouldn't negate.
A soft touch, A warm hand, A gleeful look, and an open heart
preys me like that rat that I am.
No dreams of skin and steamy rooms.
The contrast wouldn't fit.
As the gold disappears into the dead of night.
He falls off the edge.
Spinning.
Wildly.
Free Falling into the darkness.
Approaching nothing.
No conclusion.
No rest.
Only the dream of
A soft touch, A warm hand, A gleeful look, and an open heart.