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.