luna ruins, pale runes

i dreamed of a landscape as white as milk,
your pen was poised above me
with the strength of Michelangelo
bearing down,
you were drawing me with ivory fingers
and i was heavy with alabaster breasts
the roses had turned to stone
and the marble bled,

i was disfigured with irony
all dreamers are fools
and fools are only dreamers
when poetry is a Samurai sword
and the structure of Self
falls
like an empire, like the doom
of devastation
on a prophet's tongue

the chalice of love is a poison i drink
until i am drained,
pale as the moon,
light as a feather.