She was the wind,
She is now the sea,
Calling out, for sailors to breathe
Their last, upon their own thirst.
While gulls transport, from water to scrap.
While faces of Heaven see downwards to her,
They call no strength to her longing,
Is for a hopeless muse.
It is an ocean that brims darkness.
A fever, she once caused,
For the sake of amusement.
She now sings for the sake of relief,
She now hearkens to her voice,
Nested atop forlorn waters,
Upon a rock,
With nary a voice else to be heard,
Lest from her,
Whose longing curves rivers to the sea.
And beauty suffers endlessly.
Death, and its silvery essence,
Of white faces and burned-out flesh,
Of amorous curves from a helpless woman,
Of the harlot with her child,
Deprive her, the longing one, of her filthy pain.
Lose the denial,
For the meager while,
Name her sake to exist,
And place each pain on a list,
Scrawled by poets who are martyrs.
By scribes from the Vatican.
Nuns and their habits,
Form faces of worry,
As all Hell falls between a woman’s memory.
Once a virgin, now a woman,
Now a creator of alarm,
In want for whatever else serves,
She sings the lone pain,
Deprived of any love, a futile love.
Make her famous, for Heaven’s kiss,
For God’s angelic mercy.
Make her the most wanted being,
Of sculpted flesh, of hanging breast.
Her putrid form is an encasing,
Over that which all have longed,
In the stagnant misery.
Oh, there is youth so gone!
By her wicked feathery wings,
Black as night, and her lips
That are drenched in her tears and blood;
By her desires, of everyone’s shame,
And her thirsty groin,
Two breasts as two apples,
And a mind of no one’s kind;
She is unloved, and so am I.
She’s lost the beauty she’ll ever be,
For a lover was never, her sanctuary.