Number Eighty-Two

Your heart is twisting some commotion of clouds after all
and all the rain of windowsills
somehow wisps you away
The pittering music calls
The lovemaking, scattering, falls
like winter follows bitter frost.
Pictures of gardens are pictures of us.

and flickering bright in tremors of blood
so solemn you whisper of death
to stumble all over a lover
your body embraces sweet graces and i
imagine the most beautiful of roses.

- Music in Regine, 2008