Concert of midnight

December's child, born of saints and nocturnal sins;
I tossed my tears at a lambent moon
to watch them fall like despondent reveries.  
 
If only for a moment, let them be beautiful,  
let them pull me into oblivion one spark at a time
and grasp my desperation as if you and I were madness itself,
figuring that love is the obsession that inflicts us.
 
But we don't call it love, no, surely all meaning is lost  
to the reckless urgencies of passion, the strange art  
that is tangled up in blue and obscene baroque.
 
Those trains moan an accord of music as they ride intrepid rails;  
blues, I suppose, if blues could be metalcore.
We listen as my lover holds me,  
bespelled by the melody without knowing the song.
 
We are so much like the night  
I could wear it like a simple black dress,  
powder my cheeks with moonglow.  
He sees me plain that way.

(artwork: Vladisolophoto)