Poetry

A figure of beauty frightens me through my blurry eyes.
Looking up I see black and blue, two different sky's
which will appear I do not know when I wake
whatever it may be I don't know which one to take.

Because beauty does direct me with her voice
and the softness of her hand, it leaves me no choice
she leads me through doors to a room of powder
oh she who is beautiful tells me I have one hour.