A thrill for which cannot spill
Enough marks to be filled
Of her sculpted form in the room,
Where each pain can be killed.
A moment undressed of her doom
Repeated in sighs towards Heaven’s loom.
A knife brought to a curtain,
To all her showering strands
During unwelcomed moments in the fall.
Pale legs that part to the radiance
From a sun, to her running tide
Bleeding from edible petals,
As fragrance is kept on all sides.
To waters that wash forever
The sickness of incredible longing.
To scents that mark the sunset
In everything that never mattered,
Among the world’s approach for better
There is here, of something kept
With porcelain flesh,
To the shore for which I row
To reap the seeds for which I sow.