It’s the site of love, this frigid feeling, as to escape
self; this inner coffin, as grave as slavery, as shun as love. I couldn’t find
him, this man called father, this product of a villain. I’ve caved in, as tired
of sin, but a sinner at best. The hours pass, sipping and smoking, this lively
invention; while coffins glare, as waiting arrival—I opt for cremation; this
glorious thing, as ashes to seas, or a brook he couldn’t find; and what for
conscience, this inner plague, felt as a fever. I slid and staid, this
horseback love, stationed in the meadows; this first love, as to forfeit
murders, a woman that couldn’t talk. Oh the pain, this legend of time, as
screaming, It wasn’t me! I’m a
classic, as feeling homicidal, prepared for every war; but hell is love, and
sin is life—this dire sensation. I must find favor, this hellish woman, but
good at the roots of death. The cries come, fleeing devotion, as saddled to
pressure: the thickness of blood, the screams of bleeding, the caves of his
passion; while daughters cringe, and fathers plead—that striking gavel; as to
grieve cuffs, those fatal bars, as wreaking havoc. The brain dies, as to sink a
low space, and wailing mother’s grave. I loved her spinning, this inking heart,
while begging forgiveness. It must be real, this inner killing, as thrilled
with mercy; to see for humans, this outer wave, this skyward grave. I pray our
souls, and hell is ruling, where life is anger: this fevered feeling, this
cloudy book, this place as rooks. She couldn’t be naked, grieving in bloody
sheets, holding a dying man; but more reality, this feigned illusion, as to
perish that love. Oh for mercy, as to die a legend, a one to one gun fight; so
tell the birds, a man is set to die, this senseless death. I must to perish,
for this is glory, this cough he couldn’t shake; and God heard, as to bend an
ear, while hell was furious. Tell us love—this crooked sensation, as mourning
emotions!
