Tuesday, 28 August 2012

Burned Bishops

Brittle and brisk, like a kiss on your lips,
such sharp sentiments to match the songs.
Clear-cut and crisp, like the depth of my risk,
such languished lyrics reflecting my longs.

Drawn-out and dark, like your clavicle's arc,
I could not retrace where my tips should lie.
Welcomed and warm in a comforting form,
I could only point them straight to the sky.

Piercing and pale, like the point of your stare,
but I could not pick up on their sad shine.
Fearsome and fair, like the sting of your tail,
but I could not look back on things which aren't mine.

I can't control cravings I don't contain
but my burned bishops still play on my brain.

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