Posted in Mythology, Poetry


There were no shadows in the meadow
Before you
No darkness, no scent of blood and lost souls
I tired fast of roses and sunsets.

If there was temptation involved,
It was mine, subtle and coy, in every
red smile-
Red like my roses and red like your blood.

Fire and brimstone make for bleak living,
But I have you to keep me warm.
Shadows fit me like a glove.

Far away, the flowers wither and frost,
Cold like the despair of the dead,
Cold like your love;
I find I enjoy the cold.

My mother’s tears freeze on her cheeks and I,
I sink my teeth into a fresh, ripe fruit,