Over a mattress, made of black
Caressing the back of one pallid beauty.
Her dreams come as nightmares,
Wading as the furnace
To heat her face, pound her heart,
Receding time like the grayest ocean
To a former shore.
Just a dead love,
That wed too quickly,
And died too helplessly.
Mock the song of the future,
To the woman who lays
Running waters from her eyes to her heart,
Open and wide
Like the sun that receives Neptune,
To drench the flames,
To remind, of one diseased present.
Wilted, like ebony fog
That seeds the coast,
Waters the ship’s hull and deck,
For her porcelain sickness
Of a captured countenance
That trembles, simply trembles
Beneath an ocean, not ever there.