For Gold

Come morning,

there were golden hues
cracked across the floor,

the only truth in
painted dawn;

you promised petals,
and gifted thorns,

wet blades of grass

(sharp enough to pierce
the spaces between my
ribs).

I will not be
hung by the branches,
from the briefest storm.

Strip me of my clothes,
what else are you here
for?

Whilst my body gapes,
the day is dawning;

If you are night,
come, morning.