Passion deep, a gash of roses,
while thorns embrace a setting sun.
Though brush of lips may kindle fire,
tonight’s despair, clouds the beating drums.
The static noise of harps and flutes,
reach out to hold the light.
But as water trickles through veins of flesh,
the call distant, a coat of velvet night.
Now ascending, from the deepest depth,
the fog of shadows shifts to glas.
And dew is lifted, a mother’s kiss,
as grass is felt, and music heard.