Displaced from my bedside,
The moon broken in two,
The listless being who belongs within
Has come crawling with pleading hands
To bandage his wounds with the smear
Upon the spot where life did sicken,
Burying pain in the tears.
For what did quicken the heart
Was the crawl for the lips, that part,
Speaking for the milestone,
“No bliss that, for you, would dissolve
Each river of crimson you’ve beckoned
As your bereavement, in your resolve.”
The stable joys, the curving grace,
The idle blood, the enamored face.
Two worlds apart that never see,
Unless for the bending of rotten knees
Upon the tremoring floor
Caused of quake by saddened heartbeats.
Here, the excuse is poorly broken
To be away from the place most shed
Of its mired sickness, in love,
Feeling of wasted tears to be bled.
A kiss that enters the eclipse
Of grace in the shape of what missed.