With belief like religion, pursed lips speak a phrase
with a touch that could hold a cyclone in place
with drama, to consider that the sun shines eternal,
that worlds have no boundaries, and time’s a pest infernal.
A revolution of two martyrs, we could raze the avenue,
exiled to our prison flat to make all the love we wanted to.
Four walls high, that no archer could mount to reach this place
and the realm is ours alone, my Queen of Hearts and Space.
With hair spun of silk and ivory skin, seldom chapped lips of cinnamon
Midas could keep his horde of gold, your touch makes a man of a brute.
Whispered words to haunt my dreams, ever fixed upon you,
my eyes transparent with light reflect the endless blue.
Sickness but a minor detour, health for granted evermore,
Life but a game for two hearts a glow
and Death but a place that we didn’t wish to go.
Solar fragments wrenching open the blinds, my only defense
To protect my unkempt shell, sleepless, devoid of sense.
The walls stripped of color as music stripped of melody
So this must be hell- death would be less of a malady.
Walkways of quicksand tug at my heels-or an older man’s maybe?
And an anvil heart, blacker than coal, is harder than an iron sea.
Five fifty for forgetfulness, a life of grainy videotapes
and two day old Chinese in a box holding the abyss.
Day and night blur in a twisting tempest; everything’s amiss
Every walk is a journey, and every story comes out a rime,
and all is choking, crippled in the sludge of time.
Death is now the savior, may it take me in my sleep,
for in sickness I stay always, in an everlasting weep.
Eyes fogged up like London, cast in shambles- “take a number”-
As our glass silhouettes reflect our hearts torn asunder
Mystified, crucified, Love, why have you forsaken me?