Poem – “Her Beauty Holds all of Hell’s Craftsmanship” – Romance – 3/3/2020

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What will we take from the form?
Will it be the breast, or the lips,
Both of which we kiss with our mouths, our tongues?
So much the infant, as a man,
As I am,
But, in flooding desire to see myself, whole again,
As sickness, in miserable sin.

For when I stare up at the lowered clouds,
There is a spread of shame
That judges me
To the point of collapsing further than my own knees.

I bleed whiteness
To the thick of a dream, in purpose to see her satisfied.
Upon a cross,
I am already buried.

What will I take from the form,
When I compel the devil to see me, in the sufferings I dress myself,
Like strips of cloth, against my bloodied
Bandages?
Love terrifies me, as a man,
But lust will excite me, among all things visible
About me.

Destruction is a path that I have left,
But the love before, is an emptiness,
Without vision.