My heart fills with the solitude
Of a thousand-and-one waking nightmares,
Up from the deep blue,
Where each horror had slept in deepest rest.
With the sun burning high above,
Not nearly enough,
To wear down my discarded love
That does not dry on the soft sands.
Love is a failure, upon my weary shoulders,
For my death is near.
I can hear them at my door,
The entrance to where I am seated,
And they will ask for me
Love should burn, with a fierceness of no neglect.
Love should churn, in the hearts of those who had seen
All of it, for its success.
What is my pain,
What is it,
When it won’t die down, for it is the sun.
Love had grown
Among fields made of iron,
The scent of blood.