Infallible

Infallible I fall into the rain, beneath me; My sky a glittery dust to thee, Calling the joy I hath not met, Thou cometh sweetly, but late.  I fall into the cold, and just me; Only I understand the clouds, Oh! I cannot seek that ‘tis so loud, Too much noise, sickly around me! Those fallen tears around my head; The soundlessness of one’s fate, And hark, in such quietness, The decrepit being of hotness! Those ragged stars about my hair; Closing in on me, and my air, With hues dyed in drowned sunshine, But proud still, in its dried signs.  For such heat hath closed me; Hath sifted me away from you.  For such guilt hath haunted me; Hath kept me away anew.  For such a love, that thou felt; But not yet felt again, today, The gaze that I once beheld, The words my heart cannot say. Wherefore art thou, my beloved; For t’is passion is tainted but pure, To behold, to instill, to demure, The meaning of this first love. Wherefore art thou, my paint; These poems hath not been said, I see chaos, and not a flesh of fate, I hath been loving in vain. Wherefore art thou, my gaze; Why cannot I see you through my face, To hear such a bountiful voice, To be about thee, in this bliss. Wherefore art thou, my voyage; I cannot stay this sober longer, And hysteria, turning into sobs, Like death, as my heart throbs. Wherefore art thou, my colour; Bestowed on thee my honour, And age, with my fleeting skin, Waiting in haste, to be seen. Wherefore art thou, my winter; Having too many doubts in summer, Awaiting a lover that lasts, By the moonlight and stardust. Wherefore art thou, my rain; And the sung that sings again, To release my midnight, its pain— To be my beloved, then. Wherefore art thou, my kiss; I can see your solemnity, A thousand unsung melodies, To bless, to make love to me; Wherefore art thou, my art; Too much of me is in my heart, But none with a charm like thee, Like the poet in fire, that in me. Wherefore art thou, my sword; I am bland now, and unheard, Unheard as the rain that falls, Amongst the sheltered walls. Wherefore art thou, my piano; The sound that arriveth late, But not late to be my memento— To remove all conscious hate. Wherefore art thou, my word; Improvised but reckless, my Lord, Ah! Calm but poisonous, like me, A fastidious silver, like thee.