in white of the page
is the black of depths
unknown to reason -

a painters' guild,
thru oils of whiskey
and vinos of soul -

these thoughts unroll
like the light
that gently sheds
it's pity
on the frosty fields
of morning -

how - in the twilight
of youth
you spoke to me
and whispered,
"you will die"
and I did , in a metaphoric
but equally , cataclysmic way

how the ruby of your lips
& the emerald of your eyes
caressed my brutish form

like an angel
saving the sin