ceiling song.

there aren't words for eves so blue,
the proper spine's late midnight arc.
each moment lures the insects through
to shadowed pinholes in the dark.
with a lock of moonlit eyes,
they spin their lilacs, quell their lies--

yet in the pits where beauty lies,
a soul calls out its lonesome blues.
no ear could hear, no brain could eye
this broken comet's downward arc
from space and stars and lights and darks,
from hope and hearts and while worlds through.

they spit the magic, the dance is through
and words all breed their classic lies
that strangle innocence and paint her dark,
beyond the views of reds or blues,
beyond lips and tongues and reaching arcs
the Fates cry wolf past city eyes.

and distant from the scope of eyes
the call of hands is grasping through 
and piercing purest silent arcs
and digging hollow graves to lie
the lonely, beaten, black and blue,
the ones who promise to the dark.

his voice is heaven in the dark,
art that pulls the twist of eyes
past the room and depths so blue,
a feather slicing the body through 
between them where the romance lies
and veins flow pounding heartbeat arcs.

nothing exists beneath these arcs,
she wonders to the passive dark,
which covers all and always lies
to faithful, trusting, heartsick eyes.
as the morning crawls its harvest through
she clings to flesh and fleeting blue,

orbit sunspots, cruel, sharp blue
that leaves, that rips her stitches through
to wake up alone, with empty eyes.