self-inflicted wounds

by
in my thoughts, your hug bloomed on my wrist
slipping me in the calling murmur of your blood

delicately, in a sentimental future of our shadows
we dance in the rhythm of our pulse and longing

our kiss on the moon's corner in a caressing suit
heals the self-inflicted wounds created by waiting

poetic audience

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an explicit saline councilor in the deepness of my eyes, sings prominently your song its treasured susurrations bent to my heart's pond, somewhere in the right ventricle a beauty orchestrated by lungs like a Scottish bagpipe sound made to oxygenate all senses
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the magic tips of his dreams fingers slipping sluggishly into her heart pocket caress any carnal curves of her brain then annihilates any psychic aggression by sedating her with the vaccine of love of his longing that burns smoldering the magic tips of his dreams fingers slipping sluggishly into her heart pocket is kissing the platonic texts of her lust painted by the resolutions of his universe with a distorting time in a square moon rolled in a future of an imperfect perfection and this happens just because the tips of his dreams fingers are magic...
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