Passion

The name flows, like thick
honeyed wine and smells of pomegranate,
sweet, he knows and allows himself
to be submerged in that heavy
scent of perfume and moonlight.

Moonlit nights, the violin murmurs a
hushed tune, and the music kisses
those lips, red - like wine and
mellow sweet and he remembers as she
forgets the reason - why.

Why, time stands still and loses itself
within the curls of her dark hair,
outlining the lashes of eyes
and names lost in moonlight
dripping in the dry aftertaste of
sour wine.


Penned by my hand on the 8th of Mayan, in the year 602 AF.