Help
us live, through trial this life, addicted as newlyweds; to filter insanity, as
tatted your name, bleeding through cloth. I loved the madness, this cage of
fools, as intoxicated as love. We nurture the angst, by inner compulsion, as
one trembling from passion. I love you more—you love the same, to outwit such
knowledge. Its gray the life, for beige the nights, a windward last sight; to
die your frame, as one keenly dead, that alive your womb; in which is fair,
this spin of dreams, as webbed as cheating lives. Please forgive us—this flock
of pangs, contemned for outer cries; and give us lives, an immortal grain, a
surgeon of waves; to purchase love, for love to purchase, this vest bleeding
sounds. I couldn’t remember, our pious cloths, lost in deadly tales; to cross
for perfect, our imperfect dreams, to forge a portrait. Would it be—this saint of pearls, if not
the abandonment; indeed, I ask, sorting through traumas—to read the language,
this inner lagoon, grieving this light kiss; in which are moments, that very
fragment, as thunder to a woman; to tattoo my name, a vow of eternity, to
finally find pleasure. It couldn’t be, this want for mastery, tiptoeing the
back slopes; but ever it is, this list of casualties, pleading our brains. Oh
this woman, our very ache, as blackened as crows; to haunt for minds, as terror
times, as one hired for death; that inner gin, as fallin’ through sin, drifting
through an inner jinn. The nights are flesh, stirring through hapless days, as
one non-composed. How to see it—this crying fever, longing for goodbyes; to fraction
in wealth, this state of affairs, as false as teal currency. We love us less,
for something sick, a treasure never coming.
