The firmament of a woman,
An idle focus,
On ever-idler blood,
Her heart holds the face of swelling sadness,
A music that describes misery
In untold tempests,
With waves that roar against her form,
And tears that beckon their coming upon simple cheeks.
What flame has been extinguished?
What pair of eyes no longer look?
What seeming fault,
Have I been elsewhere to overlook?
What denial have I spread,
Outward, to see the ocean’s overlook?
The simple design
Of my castration,
My innate cowardice,
My form in complete failure,
Has taken a place beside the dew of my own eyes,
Yet, those blackened tears take their precedence.
Love is a place without simplicity,
As I thought it to be,
By my foolish insanity.
I face my mind with a whip in hand,
And a cradle without a heart,
A cradle without a thought,
A cradle with so much blood,
And flood to that organ something strange,
A regret, perhaps, or a drunken sorrow.
I’ll come to know the sadness, I’ve meant to spill.