Flesh is fragile
Rips with ease
Blood is a potion
That makes you weak at the knees
Weakness is a habit
That lays you bare
To the voices of reason
When ther'es no-one there
Truth is the moon
On a snowblind night
Or a bare white wall
When your drink's been spiked
The tongue is a weapon
That can wound the heart
Or a serpent of pleasure
Sliding through the dark
Wounds are the hands
Where the sun shone through
High on a hill
For me and you
Pain is the gift
Of the taste of tears
Rich in sorrow
Fed on fear
But love is a gambler
On a winning streak
Who rides his luck
Who plays for keeps
Holds the Queen of Hearts
And never sleeps
With strangers
(c) David Stansfield 2008
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem