The Violet Hour
Your lips are meadows,
Your tongue is wine.
Your laughter's liquid,
But your body's pine.
You love all sailors,
But hate the beach.
You say come touch me,
But your always out of reach.
In the dark you tell me of the flowers,
That only blooms in the violet hour.
Your arms are lovely,
Yellow and rose.
Your back's a meadow,
Covered in snow.
Your thighs are thistles,
And hot house grapes.
You breathe your sweet breath,
And have me wait.
In the dark you tell me of the flowers,
That only blooms in the violet hour.
I turned the lights out,
I cleaned the sheets.
You changed the station,
Turned up the heat.
And now your sailing,
Upon your chair.
You got me tangled up,
Inside with your beautiful black hair.
In the dark you tell me of the flowers,
That only blooms in the violet hour.
In the dark you tell me of the flowers,
That only blooms in the violet hour.
Writer/s: Alex Church
