She walks in starlight
Coming of age
In a riptide.

Her lone synth chords
Reminiscent of an
Open mic motel.

Burning multi-layered sound
We don’t fear the dark now.

There’s room enough for two
And Technicolor in a
Hot air balloon.

I can taste the comfort
On another world with you.

Delicate piano dodging
Missiles from the ground and
Candy playing on the radio

Can’t sing like we can hum
And feel the undertow.

© Ben Ditmars 2014

She tastes like the sun
that our bitter lives made.

And perhaps this truth
is why we can't be saved.

For the starlit girl
speaks against our false truths.

Not so innocent,
yet full of passion's youth.

The lunar eclipse
is not enough for her.

We are the disease.
And she? She is the cure.

To the moon, my sweet eclipse of gale.
Tread soundly, have reason spilled upon you.
As sweet white skin drilled with creators upon your face seem new though games of time play tricks upon you.
Have no tricks cloud your new expression while your face is shown.
Shedding reflected light upon the pieces of my past, connected with a spear impaled through the heart of time... still lost along the way.
Have I known the way to reach you, spilling blood on my coffins door. Liquid stained through generations, a starlight yet to show true mornings canvases, past you, reflecting your light of whitest, through red, blue or harvest, thee suspends me above sadness.
Past the frail illusions of day.