Quite

All sunk in slumber
Eyes bedewed
Your lips will come unglued
Though tears becloud the sight
Of kites torn asunder
In the blue
A silver spittle slew
We grace wings under night
Drain the day
Plain on her dripping face
Is the sun in gold and glace
Pain like the lorries
Tracing their circles
In search of something gay
Thrice blinks the bride
And mothers mew
These nectar rivers stir
To pollenate your eyes
Quiet in the neverland of noon
The smell of sinking moons
And drool of gentle lies