I sleep in the hidden folds
of a warm blanket
On a bed, in a room
with a fireplace, logs burning
Christmas eve, stocking's stuffed
in a home where parents do not fight
or waver
With untattoo'd offspring who
do not drink
I sleep there, buzzed
my feet still covered in
short black socks
And the ink on your skin
caresses that on mine

I live in a world of my own creation
where I am at once King
and Jester
Ruling all that I see
even as those beneath me
laugh at the fool
and I marvel at the fantastic
the unique and the strange
that no on else can even see..
and yet fail to see the irony
So I place my own mind under arrest,
By order of the King
and lay down to rest in a cell
of my own creation
And the ink on your skin
caresses that on mine.

"What is done in love always takes place beyond good and evil." -- Nietzsche