The love we make burns like hot iron.
Its mark is on our souls incised -
The only beacon for our hearts forlorn
Till all but love is exorcised.
Give me all your alps to dream at night
And I'll leave you all my demons to fight.
The child in you I'll hold till he won't weep.
The child in me - lull him in untormented sleep.
Let me scream your anger out till it won't glow
While you cry my tears till they'll cease to flow.
I'll lick your wounds clean and the salt within,
You caress my scars running deeper than skin.
The love we make burns like hot iron.
Its mark is on our souls incised
And us - each other's priest while forlorn
Till all but love is exorcised.
2 comments:
love *is* sharing a psychological hiding place. without threatening endangered species dwelling within.
in that case, i think you'll find "rhyme" to your liking :)
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