Your tears know deeply, my futility,
My shameful passion that I exalt, so easily.
You have beauty running over you
As years of worn flesh.
You have eyes that run naked
The tears of a yesteryear.
Of a past so dormant as the last
Time you had poured a tear from a velvet eye.
Of all times where denial roams,
I am to roam with you.
Your bruised heart,
Caused by me.
Your bloodied fingers,
Drenched by me.
My devilish fire knows not when to die,
Not for seeing your mind, and all its shine.
Your passion runs contrary to where I look.
Not to the wastes, but to where you believe
I am the deformed infant, whose torments show no waning,
Love has been my moment, to show forgiveness.
Though, no words, and neither a sigh, had allowed to run itself wild,
From my miserable breath; and all I had was a selfish hold.
Would you die, alongside,
The nest of my denial, of our denial?
Our yearning is far too grand.
It is far too grand, and not enough.