Wednesday, June 30, 2021


O lover who knows only how to take,
Her lips are cold, her pallor unholy.
Longing turns to dolor -- still I look on her
For love, lie before her as in a tomb
Hoping there is something else to give
That she desires. 

                                  O to rescue her
From the cold hole in the sky where she presides,
Seeing everything here with jaundiced eye
As she contrives my pity. But the flowers
Down below are not of interest to her;
She craves what loves and creates them

                                                            For her place
Of dust and nothingness, pocked with endless war.
Her scars became a face, rigamortis smile.
My anger, fears are nothing for her
To receive, with what ardor they carry
Hidden behind a benign stare.

                                                             For she knows
I want to die in her, to have my last
Distinct and separate trace peeled away.
Nothing is said, so nothing is a lie,
And every loss occurs so easily,
Each grief seems a relief, a way to feel.