I’m
a fission of parts, a poet broken, lost in rumination. I
raise
your name, a perfect stranger, founded in turmoil.
It’s
a windfall, and a sudden downcast, to ever compose.
Music
is dying, the texture of dolor, a speaking manikin.
It’s
ever sublime, and ever received, an alchemic dream.
I
like you becomes something special, a meeting of wills.
But
tomorrow is bruised, a writer’s nib, a woman’s
passion.
I couldn’t forget you, ever immortal, a spirit’s
halo;
and never forget me, a broken poet, growing wings.
It’s
unphysical, a meeting of souls, an amulet vision.
I’m
a fission of parts, a mystic tunic, found in rumination.
Something’s
pictureless, raging and moaning, drifting
a
mental sphere. It’s ever your name, a tender leaf, a
fabulous
rapture. It’s more the rain, a spirit’s nectar, a
sudden
inrush. Such splendor, for a broken poet, a
thousand
pages of doctrine. I’m awestruck and shattered,
nibbling sickness.
