Night VII

The running faucet is like a storm,
designed by about a thousand gods.
and my heartbeat seems to play along,
to my drowning eyes- it's restless flood.
Then the echo of screams form the walls,
that never seem to become their own,
then when a sheer drop- consciousness falls,
and elopes with all that I have known.
So sweet is the smell of forever,
like sweet turnips wearing their sunshine,
like bittersweet nights of November,
their music falls into my design.
When you look Evening in the eye,
Oh! Is it not dark- when the Moon dies?...