She leaves, in silence, fingerprints in silver on my soul, so when, in a final exhale of mist I expire they will know I have met my desire.
Marked I lie, beneath a silver moon. Dewy beads I cry, for a dryad that had to die, like leaves that turn to the rain that is coming I raise my cheek to the night.
When she has fled, that wraith of breath born from a mire, I gasp as ice encases my body freezing the loss in place.
What winter nights might say if only I could listen, what would the bustle of the trees speak If only this burning flesh would cool it's own desire. Perhaps my inner needs will be met when silver moons beget my hearts fire.Back to Poems