What wills its power, final hour, a flower in
toxicity? Eyes heavy, her heart depressed, her pain lethal — souls fall in
love, holding clouds, nebulous replies. Oh Darkness, how have I loved you,
breaking pavements, concrete abstracts, adoring the way you hurt me. What wills
its power, slipping away, begging for mastery, a symbol that we love? The final
flower, petals trampled, skies thundering, bolts of electricity, rooms filled
with fog, pleading each other. I needed you, it was hectic pain, you left agony
to suffer—you should’ve tried desperately. What wills its power, sheer
devastation, hurting so long one becomes a beast? Wrongness + Error is never
peaceable – to assign a role, to placate emotion, to try in making love, a need
for guidance, a child in the adult. I loved your image, you appeared conscious,
pure to a fault, filthy to sustain humanness. I can see you – what wills
its power – seated in distinguished blues, mastery of lows, so lit at the
funeral.
