Sketch me your rapturous longing 
as loganberries
changing from pale to red fall from the sky,
in twilight your skin is more olive,
your lips more soft
and eyes a form of rhetoric that seem to melt
under the heat of my own gaze,
what once was whispered to the moon
has now emerged in tarot,
though I admit
I have no memory of being offered a choice,
what’s chaos to the world is balm for my soul.


Photo credits: The Dystopian Tarot, Kerry O’ Conner

Posted for Art Flash @ Real Toads