Impulse

A knife presses sharply on the artery of life,
forcing meritless prayer from chapped lover’s lips.

Raw breath riots through sex-scented hair,
mixing with the wine spilled in their haste.

Painted Faces on Parade

I am breathless with the effort of this masquerade.

I drink in the moon and hide from the sun,
pretending I never did need to breathe.

Death-masked daydreams skitter before reddened
eyelids, throwing a lavender fantasy into sharp relief.

I can bury myself in a sex-scented reverie, but
I’ll still be trying to burrow into the blackened earth. 

A pale kiss never could solidify this illusion.