One Fallen Star

The passion grows, hurrying you along faster now as mad as a derelict muse, whispering impossible things through the many, weeping pinpricks of a day. Her voice could hold back the rippling seas, shimmy the pebbles closer to shore, as a hidden breast cleaves itself, to fold within each living, dying, precarious thing. Is the soul just another flowered flesh, lacking roots? while laughter spreads, like a distant memory of heartache- the tongue the less pointed instrument, of dying. The anticipation arouses brash gestures, as sweet fires run the gamut, of body to mind, while a lovely pounding surf assails all the senses: She will take you as you are- but only the length of one fallen star..