nocturne
speaks. I’m tragic blue. or there you sit,
marrying
piano keys. Such ruth strikes at bone; where God is
giving
lectures. I love the resin of our ashes, staring
into
coliseum. walk the museum, my Love. explain the
history
of each fire. I love to hear Love, so eloquent.
I’m
not afraid. firewood is blazing; or smaze is
signing
esoteria. our repertoire has struck its stage. I
watch,
leaning into tempo: an encore is nearby. This is our
future:
a well of disappointment, for we fail our furniture.
what
is nightmare: to live by motif, while summer is
without
cloth. I love you more, adrift by opus,
floating
into Easter: “why have we died softly?”
it’s
true to have done such to reach emotion, to touch
force,
to curse at destiny: but we fail by harmony.
