Extraction

The words that are written are memories traveling through time. An existence as magnanimous as the sun, yet as all consuming as the hungriest black hole.


The stars are spilling melodies
I simmer down below
Sweet symphonies explode
I want a million
Summer nights
Swept up in your monsoon


Extraction. I'm thinking of you now. An exile reversed. I'd carve it out on a silver spoon.
We mill in the twilight, the sticky air clings. I refrain. The longing is there. As are the hours and gallons of unspilled words. It's not that I don't know what to say. It's that the words I reach seem all wrong, or not enough meaning. And you know that.
Lost in translation.

Scions Sing the Summer Winds

The fire that burns. Opalescent words cascade vivaciously.
Cinders spread flames, winds that singe. Stars tumbling down broken dark paths. Where wicked words lull them into faiths of madness.
The cascade that pools. Claret depths sickly swirling, rich and thick as syrup.
The scions sing the summer winds. Rich fury, lush whispers. Beguiling. Ever enticing, roils the form forbidden, igniting conflagration soul consuming.