I am something abominable,
Am I not?
The fool who had wavered himself,
From holiest truth.
Though, not more will I run
From you, from treasured beauty.
I run a faucet for you to bathe,
And to cleanse all that has polluted
The corners of your weathered mind.
Beloved, come to dine,
Upon all of me,
There is naught, but the hopeless remnants,
Of a one who still yearns for kisses,
Deep, and romantic, and plentiful.
Make me memorable,
In the banquet of fruit,
Of berry and other morsel,
In many cups and many bowls,
As a lute hangs from a poet’s arms.
I want to hold, and to have,
Though, as doubt swings upon a chain,
Appearing as its own form,
With a word called “sinister” to its eyes,
No face masks it,
Just blankness, and fault.
I wish to make merry with you, my love,
Under an altar, where God’s own doves,
Come to turns frowns,
Into heavenly smiles.
It will be true,
Will it not?