Monsters of Men

the tragedy of helios

Loving her is bad, but I

can't stop. She waits in a

meadow with a white dress

down to her knees and plum

juice running down her chin.

She licks the edge of the

periwinkle sunset and

pulls apart the night

so the sky weeps for the moon.

She's made of blossoms and daisies

and they bloom from

the cracks in her knees. Scars

spilling with soil from the

days the universe tried to hold

her down. She's beautiful,

like dead stars and wilting

roses and poisonous honey.

And everytime I kiss her I

die a little, until the time

comes where she'll give

my body to the birds and watch

as they throw me into

the sun.

But until then I'll keep on loving her.