Years of Guilt

The death of us, the life of us, a repeated album; I die to see you, trekking a black river, to sit with chestnut bread; oh the detriment, the eyelash flirts, the irony of unfaithfulness; and the last motif, an oxymoron, to ask for what she couldn’t give: the earth, the life, the paradox.

We must abscond, to reason caprice, as craven as a faithless vowel; and ever to fawn, a form of distraction, to yearn another’s soul. I love this latent love, as plastic as bilk, as real as heartache; to finally fall, the armchair reasons, as trampled as red carpet.

It was ever us, a bookcase of joys, and chased by woes; to see us perish, while gripping an ankh, that closer to madness. Oh the mandolins, to keep us together, to love this life; where fancy is vile, a fallen fairytale, a fable in a psyche; to see it, and ignore it, to play her for stupid.

I love the chi, but not the implications, to sex you in one position; for faces cry, adrift a vista, a thimble to a soul; to see graves and tombs, painting the veranda, to sketch the credenza. We loved in hiding, to want for suitors, to anger a daughter; and cry this love, to feign abuse, to gilt an armoire; where smiles are dying, to search for reasons, that closer the narration; to see and mourn—the scope of angst, to finally see: a passage, built on truths, to know self-repudiation; oh the pain, as silent as secrets, as sullen as guilt.