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The Wick is Thick
A cold dark December and the wick is thick
beneath stone where ghost tame the flame
in the recesses of my mind listening
to whispers seduce my shadow
caught in the winds of memories
where envy does not dare
playing pick up stick
scratching at the mahogany
clutching at my soul
in breathless innuendos
with lullabies and fetish
erupting the pentacle
pining the ivories of immortality
lusting the corset of your mobility
clutching the petal of moonlight bloom
on the edge of reality
unquenched by decadence
swayed by the dust
of flesh unfurling
containing my yearning
beneath stone where ghost tame the flame
in the recesses of my mind listening
to whispers seduce my shadow
caught in the winds of memories
where envy does not dare
playing pick up stick
scratching at the mahogany
clutching at my soul
in breathless innuendos
with lullabies and fetish
erupting the pentacle
pining the ivories of immortality
lusting the corset of your mobility
clutching the petal of moonlight bloom
on the edge of reality
unquenched by decadence
swayed by the dust
of flesh unfurling
containing my yearning
Published 12th Feb 2025
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