words dripped in honey
running down my throat
like smooth, cool, raindrops
on the silver, moon-struck lawn
collecting snapshots of souls
like stamps
-or stainglass butterflies-
holding them close in my box
of draped velvet
-black is best bit it moves-
hearing the soft echo of footsteps
against my own walls
-too often now that aching purple-
staring at the ceiling waiting for the echoes
to cease
-oh but they never really do, do they, sweetheart?-
candles turning to eyes in my darkness
© 1999 m. hughes
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