This old love is unendurable:
its bough breaks in the breeze;
its frosted buds crack and splinter;
it's a heart stitched to a razor sleeve;
its wrists split and bleed and stain
like a shadow escaping whilst being
illuminated by the moon's swan glow at midnight-
she's not simply a marble pebble, we're all midnight's
bride, completely sacrificed at the altar, unknowingly perishing.
But without it, the naked flesh peels in the rain to reveal an
empty centre; he does not know that I love him with no heart.
Copyright © Daniel Dixon