Paper Bird In A Sky Of Fire

You enter me as a cathedral,

my arms are coloured crystal,

two stained roses, whose vines wrap

around you, cutting into the artery

of your contemplation, causing

memories to shatter in the sunblood.

 

We are strangers to ourselves

in the interval, in the moonblood.

An ethereal music flows through

our mouths, with an ancient echo

that breathes outside the window,

where a foreign woman undresses

in the shadow of love’s betrayal.

 

I am a bird cut from paper

against the matchstick of your lips.

Our love is a blur of unclear glass,

a dream burning in infinite fire,

a cracked boat crossing

a river of ice in the heart of spring,

leaving us clinging to nothing.

 

There’s a comet dying in darkness,

we can see it on fire in the distance,

where we stare at the anguish

traced from the sky’s photograph,

captured during a lonely century,

in which we lived and lost all hope for flight.