Real

The world is turned to silver and to jet
The world is turned to sugar and to blood
The air has gone to ringing, and as yet
The moon, in bloom, is passion in the bud
Shine on milady, bathe us, that we clean
go rushing in where angels fear to tread,
There would’ve been a time for such a word
For in that sleep of Love we go to bed

She breathes, she breathes, like no one ought to breathe
Who ever should’ve seen the likes of me
But there, the skin, and somewhere underneath
A seat where something golden ought to be
Is this my hand, that touches Venus so?
The mortal flesh beneath it whispers “no.”