Priceless

You are the icon Or deadly colour That gives to my life Passion without form: Formidable ecstasies that invite lust You are the scream of life at creation A symbol that could break A deep empty balance You are iconoclastic brilliance Beyond the metaphor of death An angry instrument of a vengeful god With lips like an archangel You are the demands of a nine to five society Sex, music, magic An ache that rises like smog above a city You are the eyes that seek out my electrified silhouette The force that drinks the air from my lips, Making me an instrument of suffering You mean everything and nothing to me.