Mantle

Under the pouring rain,
in a warm lovely square,
I gaze into your milky skin,
into your silky mane,
without words or care.

Cutting through the most
intricate machine of desire
I am a wish, a dandelion,
a spirit without a host
with something on fire.

Beauty, music, musae
and youth that spills forth
in all directions at once,
powerful as new novae,
but unaware of any worth.

I am an eye, an empty grin
what else but on my knees?
I waited, but now in vain
Mockery I know, and gin
and melancholy, not peace.