To These Nostalgic Eyes (Tantrums and Tiaras)

I got quite used to a word mind-game,
selling out every lie just to taste the tears-
those crystals of defeat
dancing through intoxicated emeralds,
empathetic as the blizzard fallen from our tongues.

... if there's an embodiment of my crimson moon,
trigger for the ebbs and tides, revolving satellites
like there are no future crimes to solve,
it would be you, a patron
of unspoken poetry and wasted ambiguity...

I got quite used to a word antidote,
existing as a parasite of your silver laughter-
that pearly illusion, cryptic constellation
where the chimeras of the twilight reside
under the clouds covered with moss.

... if there's a welkin to these nostalgic eyes,
the force of gravity, merging galaxies
like the words can't suffocate their creator,
it would be you, an artist
with a paintbrush and a blade, palette of tsunamis,
and a heart of tantrums and tiaras.