❤ Soul sensitive

At night ,
when I lay in bed,
As I drift towards my sleep,
When the eve becomes shadowy red,
My slumber has begun deep,
My muse molesting the tender arched corners ,
Letting my lips sink into the fruity candour,
Within the sculpted flesh ;
Swaying to his oscillating
Charms ,
Serving the tinctures of a bruised mind.

At twilight ,
there are druids in us all;
To sweeten contemplation for the heart,
Tears serve as glazed syrups .
It intoxicates ,
trickles down the low energies squeezed .
And drinks
intoxicate this art,
My fingers sweeping mist
from the rhapsody tiling the crescent bay,
as if my soul conjures gold
from a mix of dye,
squeezed from the inky skies,
Leaving a transmutating thrall.

NG.2022🍁
© Lizbeth