Saint of Nothing

Her whispers,
flow like a silken river,
into the forest’s embrace

enchanting tunes drift,
echoing within, a tight warmth
caressing my skin, maidenly

her hands—
soft plumes,
behold me the world,
and her eyes, that sparkle
no different than sun, my sun
sowed on barren soil

and those faint robes
wane with the veiled moon
dragging all of mine,
into hollow.