[TojesDolan]

Less

Flying lambs in December's darkest skies
gaze wide down to earth,
staring at the shadows we project
right past beyond our eyes.

While we heal our wounds in the morass,
among poisonous crimson clovers,
we lurk through these mud puddles for our
bloodstained blanket, to cover
from the freezing rain,
and watch the growth of grass.
Slowly.

I lost the grasp of her hand,
She fled from my arms.

In her eyes I found comfort,
in her arms, dismay,
It's her scorn that makes me swell,
Her hands remind me of
the failure in my endeavour,
the grapevine talk that swallows us all.

It was our vice, it is my disease,
It's the shine in her eyes that kept me in awe.
As we stared the murderous butterflies in the woods,
she devoured their wings
attempting to fly at her will.

Sleep in this still-life for now,
My princess of filth,
Where we remain quiet,
letting the flies encystment
mistify our secret enlightment.

Let's begin once again,
hiding in the morass beneath eternity's bed,
so we can mourn as one,
standing in the stile,
looking up from earth
to gaze the flying lambs
in December's darkest skies.