Slithering Dreams

She knows I can never be,
the man in dream she often sees.
Her touch, like tattered gloves in rain:
Warm but wanting, yearn in vain. 
Her nails like crescent moon at night.
She savors on the darker side.
Ploughing through my thick dark thews,
a skin deep scar with crimson hues.
Light trickle down my endless pores,
hairs dancing to her overtures.
Whispers, rustling like a rattle snake;
in cold blood, venom, she injects.
She knows who I often see,
dreaming of someone but me.

Dichotomy

I stand with one foot in an abyss,
toes pedicured by dangling anglers.
And the other on a mountain,
basking in crimson lava.

My fingers desperately wander,
over frigid extremities, benumbed.
I hold the earth from spinning
and then give up, pricked by it's axis.

As I raise my head over the horizon,
dark clouds appear and languidly disappear
breaking the melancholic monotony of blue.
Mizzling with eyes clenched.

The rest? I know little about,
hides and runs in spaces confined ,
hoping, that perhaps someday,
stars realign, abjuring the eternal hunt.