Bled of solace, perfected in blood. Never knew was life; never fathomed God’s violin. So near to the grave. I was born to give up the ghost.
I adored a child, to praise an adult.
Composed of visions, sold to repentance, captured by pure resistance.
Erratic soul pressure, capricious pianos.
In needing you—I love you; in depth of gems, singing as it aches, to hurt in a precious moment.
I’ve a weary outlook; I fathom all are dying, and trying so hard.
I tear up to speak of you: your days are locks, requiring keys.
Such an inner castle, so many mansions, to have won before birth: sunshine arts, spectacle shards, blatant indecision.
The highway is lonely, clouds are darkened—to fever in a moment, to lose so much.
Loving you is easy; healing you is by fate; to sing silence.
