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
Love terrifies me, as a man,
But lust will excite me, among all things visible
Destruction is a path that I have left,
But the love before, is an emptiness,