Like our heart of hearts,
With love as butter upon its red smoothness,
Like the softest bread,
And as beauty will raise itself, so will it, as well,
And as I see your eyes with their shimmering shape,
I seem to not be allowed to peer further
For they strike me as the daggers,
Or the torch,
Lifted to burn away the pleasures from me,
During when I see what I’ve always seen.
Your hopes, or rather,
Our desires, or rather,
The world’s desires,
Are far too multiplied.
Still sickened, we are, by that fabulous aroma,
Of life with its Hellish moods,
And its episodes of anguish and despair.
Death is a great world
Without the yearning to see
Into those eyes of yours.
My life, near a blade,
Near where my face slowly fixes itself,
Upon where you stand, in the glade,
And behold, before yourself,
Life, by a womb that extends forth,
And I know
That we are not meant for the other,
Because you hold content, while I have not
The happiness I require.
Life has been but trial, for me,
And nothing more.