A Blossom In The Savage Garden
He sits at the table with Angels
But fairer than any
winged
creature of God
As a statue might, if statues had inside them,
The feeling that shines in his
two sculptured eyes.
Emeralds are Forever.
His touch is the pooling of Moonlight
As he turns
another page of his rotting and mustied novel
The Pages crackle audibly beneath his fingertips
His
devouring eyes
The thin, delicate smile of his lips
It's enough to make me smile;
or die.
The breaking of his flesh beneath my lips,
And the Blood that struck the roof of my mouth
slides,
like silk, down my throat
in the bowels of my limbs
This frail being, a shell of a once empty man
with the beauty of an Angel's Vision
Beauty so simple,
that I want to weep
and turn my head away
Before he can see the crimson that rains from my statue
eyes
Does he ever see?
How can eyes so ethereal be so blind?
by Lestat de Lioncourt
