To tell a truth of blood and wine
Takes tears of liquid steel and a lazy tongue
Clenched fists, holding on to a hope that fades
Into the grave, sieving through the cracks like fine sand
I kissed your mind and our souls collided.
So I’ll give you to the count of three,
‘Til you think of me.
We can call it even on this Gray afternoon
As you catch my breath with your velvet voice
And my stipulations drown like a forced pill
I surrender my injured body to your whispers’ heat
But razor-like palms hold my world as I knew it.
I’ll give you to the count of three,
‘Til you dream of me.
Counting the dying suns of yesterdays
Lost in trailing thoughts of tomorrows
I suddenly get the angel view of today
Mistaking whores for healers in heels
Hearing sooty truths, believing white lies.
I give you to the count of three,
‘Til you come to me.
But the dragons are mine to slain
The laments are mine to sing
None can rescue me in the labyrinth of my fears
The chimera slowly retreats and your presence dissipates
That’s when I realise that the memory of you must burn, alive.
One, two, three.
Helen Marie Joyce 