Pleasure me with the face of roses,
And feed me your graces,
Long, was your tresses, made of ebony.
Stone-like, is your heart, and made of the same.
Find me next to nectar,
Let us leave the sacred altar,
And play nude in the mud.
Children are ignorant, while question is their infinity.
My beauty with stains of descent,
Upon soil, where your ragged flesh lies loose,
And a heart burdened in heaviness.
I toss more soil to silence whatever flame
Is still left to light the Earth,
And all its failing dwellers.
Name yourself upon the shape of my arm,
Twist yourself about the beautiful objects that stone me,
Make me warm, and make me wild,
Find me as a man of nothingness.
I feel fame as easily as pleasure,
Death and denial go as well
As the evening to strife upon life,
When we said to ourselves,
“We are meant to be,
Pleasured by pain, so evenly.”
We are the workers of a plentiful tomorrow,
The roses you bring are the tears you’ve shed.
As I am in love with the dead,
And I will play with the sand,
To share our story with those well-read,
To finally feel my heart enclosed in this hand.