Is heaven, the torn bits
at the end of His hands
twisting the tube of empty,
refracted fooling to That is so
pretty, how it falls into place in the light?
Collide the scope with subtle shades
of blended makeup on a face and lids,
and cleaner scents in the dens of pleasure.
Until then,
You do not know me.
Posted by nancy at August 30, 2009 12:23 AM