There is an enemy, only of my belonging,
I weep aloud, to the early entrances, of graves,
And sing freely, when the moon gushes, a pale hue.
As my love glows, from her milky radiance.
I drew love, like a heart, over her bosom,
Two orbs of flesh, named as breasts, were dear,
One named “Violet”, and the other named “Sapphire”,
And her tresses, adopted, the bleakness, of night.
Grace, was in her movements,
And now, grace, is no longer present.
Grace, had made its motion, by a form,
Exquisite detail, in each mark,
Exquisite detail, in every crease.
Two lips so watery, in what they speak,
As words of stone, marble, and ice.
Two nostrils, in what they breath,
The scent of fertility, called to be, nothingness.
Oh, woman of mine, as death was dear,
Dear, to your resemblance, of time.
Oh, woman of mine, as fear drew near,
Made to gleam tension, in residue of grime.
You were once, magnificent.
You are now, deprived, of fulfillment.