Mist on Strands of Gold





With skin of porcelain morning.

With each thought that passes I am hung within.

Forever adorning,

the walls of my soul.

As mist gathers in those strands of gold.



Inside grasping for many momments,

lacking.

Tired of the rules leaving me with the emptyness,

gasping.

Fill me with your breathe.

Each second I take as my insides swell and ache.

The need for this hunger filled.

Nothing back with the constant cutting of strings.

I yearn for the days of simpler things.

Days of ignorance mixed with innocense.

No not ever,

as my grasp is unteathered.

I slip into the black,

as you pull back.

Lost within those almond shaped embers.

Lost within this dream, "no this is not me!"

Always and forever second in line.

With each hour, day, and month of time.

Washes away these visions of mine.

But at least in those momments I steal.

No matter how awkward or surreal.

For those sweet, brief momments I try to make real.

I drink it, each second, with a dying mans thirst.

I once again hold to that vision where I am finally first.

As that mist bathes in beauty gold.

The sky finds it's sun.

I know those savored moments dawning

My half becomes one.