Nocturnal whisperings of the delusional mind.

I have the night at the edge of his seat, wearing the knife like a blade on heat.

Watch the whispering the light benders weave, the tall tales that coerce the feeble, the wicked wine that concedes the vial tempers within.

Sweetness poured from your cracked lips as they touched my swollen mind, we had angered passion in ways only solitude knows and desperation devours.

I waited by the door, for someone to come in but life had completely walked on by, how I wished I had opened that door, just for a look.

There is no more, the famine in the soul has fled, the ache of the heart now remains.

I miss the angels beating at my door, licking star dust from their fragile lips, bleeding drama onto the naked floor.