The north star

bleeds

and

burns

over my head tonight

and ruby red candles

all fixated on wild love making.

The north star

bleeds

and

burns

but it is not my star to look after,

I have no duties more pressing then this,

though,

in all truthfulness

I would like to.

My lovers

are nothing more

then photographs

within the black leather of handwriting

folded into thin squares of notes and letters.

The north star

bleeds

and

burns

and I'm lonely

out here

beneath the night and somewhere south of happiness.

My heart is a frozen sea

of sweet nothings and apologies.

Crumbling roads that I stumble down,

as I hold tightly to a painted picture of my mother

I keep it close to me for fear that I will lose her.

The north star

bleeds

and

burns

but it's all that I have tonight.