to love and hold so dear. What quality of agony do you suppose is right, fitting for this my song.
Silent. That abysmal hole, from which all my sucking wounds engorge from.
Where now that love so sweetly on your lips did settle once, a glistened jeweled dewdrop
sweet to quench the most rabid thirst. Now a void upon your shoulder sits,
looking down on me so slyly its boned and crooked finger upon my heart lays down,
an icy touch to crack and spread, and forth, retching, I look, but nothing there,
So quickly denied, loves silhouette, mere shadow dance, smoke.
If there resides true heart for mine, adorn with breath with life,
or else end your insult, free my tortured heart, for you still burning bright.
No comments:
Post a Comment