Who weeps, and still creates song
After bloody song
In her bath of red-colored water,
As her garbs lie heaped upon one another,
On the floor, outside of reach.
I saw what twisted my vision,
A hue in a bath of water
And it was the color of the sun, yet without the warmth,
For a knife has drawn evenly
Over the wrist of a lovely wife,
One cut, and it was made wider than ever a smile she’d show.
Beauty of any dream,
Nighttime has seemed to bequeath
Itself, like light in the empty hearth,
For darkness has been your comfort
In the Hell I’ve called love,
In the confinement we’ve called home.
Like a prison,
Like a womb,
Like a nest with no birds from your side,
Pulled as many ribs,
So you can call them equal
To your pain.
And a face that strikes out an image
Of complete and utter peace.