Poem – “Her Lips, the Iron” – Romance – 9/24/2020

Blood-red leaflets
Of autumnal scribblings
Shower praises,
Staunch phrases,
Leave pages
Untied of her demise,
Loosened of her chosen
And to the grave where she
Keeps her silence,
I have grown a blood-red

Heavy traces
Where cutting flesh
Is for the faces
Wearied by shock,
Toiled of the painter’s smock,
Captured by the wandering clock
That drowns scent
Of blood, in iron wells
Where I can rise,
And she can drown.
This, too, I can grow from.

Love is the iron maiden
Where I can be closed
In a deathly embrace,
Fluid-like traces
Of red,
Smoking in the sunrise,
Setting in the sunset
The smell of menthol
Upon the iron ash tray.
I leave kind unknowings
To the books, that are lost.

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