(no subject)

[amo_invitus]

winter is just a season
without depth beyond it's scorn
no matter how tender that heart may be
wrapped in scarf and sleeves
and sat at the hearth of hope and belief

no warmth may be had lasting
just the shaken gripe of love passed
and missed
taken in the eternal ache for a final kiss

which no memory can maintain
that echoed my wish
the face or voice
of the the true form or charade
and we are left guessing
the value of our own pasts
or where we have laid
if we ever had rest

so sleep holds the only solace
left untouched by pressing hands
except their own which shapes it
and innocent blood like wit is gold
rusting in the shades
and pulsing in the veins of divine lovers
never to come
beyond sleep's hold

good night.