Play for me,
Dear, struggling woman,
Though, our patterns be great,
They seem to turn upon their own command.
I found love upon your own throne,
Upon your own grace,
Upon your own face.
Tears struggle mad to free themselves,
From daily confinement.
Bruised and scorned by the sun,
Patterns grow immense, in all levels of sadness.
I see futures born from all various
Moments in sickness.
Lips are grown, bulbous and ripe,
Upon your face in the ivory.
Scents as old as the ice that crawls
Upon your lingered sight.
Lips as red as the blood beneath your veins,
Bold for my taste, if I could smooth the vast many
Wrinkles, that adorn
Your cherished cheeks.
I struggle madly,
To pinpoint the heartache’s origin,
The love and its flame,
And shows to us, a pattern of destruction,
For what it has touched,
In where it has stained,
Above all, we are pained,
As we flourish in our own blood,
And we cover ourselves in frozen love.