Them

Is there anymore sign of "them" all that's left is single stitched eyebrows from you.
Question "them" deeply with sacred glances to and fro, not failing to mention the unmentionable.
My hands are cold from the evening shades of glow.
No more words left, I hung my keyboard on her windowsill.
Kisses are wiped clean with the cloth torn asunder.
What am I getting at anyway in these muses?
Is there a meaning, deeper?
I picture it all, is ALL that really matters.
Will you let me be the last one to gaze into those lovely eyes? so much mystery.
I am an ugly man, a sick and cursed man with many a word to whittle on my staff.
I too have my eyes and mysteries to hold back.

Dru