my midwest queen born from amber highways, gilded trumpets sounding through her holes.
blue lights pour from the sky, red and august dawn breaks, we swam together through the salty spray of somber oceans (dead soldiers), mists of alcohol and clouds of cheap cigarette smoke.
from the pale black cliffs every evening, she crawled into my head, whispered "if only we werent just stretched skin and brittle bones." i said "well darling you are the pauper and i am the cathedral walls, maybe something holy will errupt, (sanctuary's the gift of my all hallows hold) out of the empty smiles that disappear when your pupils close, when my pupils close" youre tossing and turning in your writers cloak, coy cinnamon fleet foxes in your hair and down your shoulders parting for a cryptic brow-- voyeur arrows, over stale blue eyes that echo your soul, climbing the ethics of ivory and midnight. you are soft white porcelain in an orange glow. the sky is pouring. fine whiskey glasses its a chantry cove, but who's taken the helm when i put my pen back down?

cause i'll be tired, drunk and all alone. it was your pretty face, echoed and shattered the only stained glass windows i ever owned.
so please dont.