She rose, so well, in the time of morning,
Stilled, my finger was, worn and broken,
At the still of morning, by what laces the sun,
Being, her face, as I trace every line and curve,
By that same finger.
What a kindness, unto me!
What a world, that enraptures me!
Her disease, called love,
Is a wonder, to still be above
Myself, in this wishful morning.
But, a ghost is all I see.
And, a ghost is all I need.
It is a ghost before me,
Who stands, with her eyes to bleed,
The tears, as naked droplets of such glimmer,
That they should replace the midnight stars.
I lay a book down, swollen with its pages,
Bloated in words,
And congealed by verse.
Notes describing beauty
For what it is.
A pleasure to the world,
Or a delusion for me?
But, I weep out grief into the notes,
Into the words,
And speak what tales I have overlooked,
Finding darkness, once again
In the Hell I’ve let begin,
As my anguish,
In my place among the tears that fall.
There is dutifulness in life,
And great suffering in strife.
I am a dullness with my own knife,
Not as sharp as the blade, drenched in blood.
For in this endlessness of pain,
I have created the flood.