Poetry

Put a candle under
the rose bush.
I am going to draw blood
from the moon.

See my body has become
a boat and you are the sea.
I am an opus Dei
and you are my deity.

We mist and we rain
on our frailties. The drama
unfolds, when we grieve
for the butterflies.

Who was taller than
our sins? Like pixies
falling from the skies.