Oct 4, 2009


Time is the slowest moving thread from the needle by my eye
The gate of teeth and chains closes before my soul
It will not open
The teeth won't turn to flowers
The chains won't turn to vines
My blood won't become wine

But the gate opens when it hears her footsteps
The touch of her hand erases my claws
The touch of her lips removes my fangs
My gate is now a doorway
The chains are now vines bearing sweet grapes
The blood is now wine that we drink
We celebrate

Inside the gate is a garden
The stairs of the words we speak lead to the fountain
Of my soul
Her soul

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