“Truth is mere flesh. Flesh is mere exposure of truth. Undo the knots from clothing to show flesh, and you show everything expected to be concealed, until the proper moment. Everything becomes a shock in such a moment. Everything becomes a loss, and then we behold a world where truth is only ever perceived to be subjective. And, in such a world, we forget what sees truth: the eyes of love.”
Bequeath me, now, with open palms to the wind, Your beauty of forthcoming surmising, There is description in my voice, To what I hold, A breast for an infant, As I once was, With smallish lips like marble against a nipple of garnet, I am weak when I bend a knee, And hear all words rejoice like a Heavenly plea. What am I besides a giant, made now as an insect?
Form your words like sharpest daggers, Your own words, in contrast to my own, There is finality here, Made of God’s footprints in the arid sand, Of a temperature so hot, Alike the lust upon your crimson cheeks, Those that blush for the view, Of my sharpest arrow, Held in the confines of a simple bow, Ready to be loosed upon your barren heart.
What words must I commit, To see candles you’ve barely lit?
Devour nectar, and split belief in two Sides to one Devilish coin, With a man’s face engraved on both ends.
You have a face that screams of envy, To the mockery of defeat, To a man who has lost a treasure.
With arms bare and white, And heart struck with fright, Beauty lashes your immaculate back, And wins the struggle from your sight.
The flesh to which we capture, Is lost for Man, is lost for truth, And of you, who screams the words before an altar, The “I do”, to you, and only you, Your eyes are tranquil before wisdom, Before the logic that straightens All the vessels of your heart.
I mock the lot, Of beauty’s keepers, They cultivate gardens, For their fragility.
Before you die, Show scarlet lips to a priest, And then, to a dog That possesses the mange and gargles On its own parasites, On ticks and worms and flies.
To a dog, you will become A rapist of beauty. Find family in that emptiness, In the uncertainty of Man, That you have devised, In those you despised.
Too many damnable kisses, Brought thorns to make me bleed, And the face that holds a rose, Between two lips colored by cherry. A sweetness mingles over your form, And all I feel is the seduction.
I dart with disarray against your eyes, Those that show glare against mine, Great beauty of feminine doom, Show me your way of a common demise, Rotted are you, in these arms of dust, Once we were, by the altar of marriage.
You blew a kiss in my direction, A farewell or a guarantee, As Christ knew who to cherish and who to despise, A lonesome shape he became, Under the fashion of weathered clouds, You are a woman of newest hurricanes.
A woman of storms so fierce, And so great, against my lashed back. I am, or was, a savior to a cause, To make you see a lust that pierces a night’s aura, Of candlelight and music played, Upon a highlighted gramophone.
A savage glare is all I notice, Under a mind, not of my kind, And above a nose, With beauty that surely grows. I am alive, Though, nothing has been made mine.
Face the dark, with yourself against me, Squeeze the moon, to shed drops of truest gloom. Find your smile, and nothing to remind me, Of the pain that had been there to see.
Your eyes have surrounded, My aching morning, As beauty swims a fallen mile, A death that I drew close, You will be the woman I will raise, From a worn stem of flesh.
You have a face that shows a yearning, For a merciful connection, A series of tears have washed my tired face, I am a man who knows truest torment, As I have named it upon my back, That has received many lashes.
There is love streaming from my soul, As I view the woman who I aim to save, From a wreckage, from a failure, And from my undoings. My inaction has come at more cost, Than the men who commit to genocide.
I see the tears falling from your gentle face, When you sleep in a night of darkness, And with twisted fingers, Rosy flesh and idle heart, There is simplicity in every part to whatever gaze, Has come around to apologize. And I speak to you, “Do not weep, You have beauty, and I have not.”
I simply wish to stir, Around the waters of your heart. I will make the gold and the ornaments, From my barren hands.
I will make what is necessary, So that love flourishes.
As my arms extend outwards, To reach for what I had lost, There’s only the air, And only a strand of hair, To embrace, I have touched the edge of a bed.
I have made my home a nest, Of emptiness. I have become one with Loneliness and grief. It is because of an agony, One with so much melody, Within her gruesome cries, To my eyes.
And outwards, my arms grope, For the burning rope, Where she once hung, As if executed, Upon wooden gallows. For the world to see, and to bury me, Beneath a tide of grief. Oh, love! Have you gone away from me?
The feeling of its infinity, Mocks the place of my belonging.
There, too, is our destiny, Where wishes surface in a pool of blood, In a heart so burdened by memory.
Of eye and iris, combined, I combed the earth, to then find those pair, Dipped in honeydew and nectar alike, Stark against pallid skin and reddened cheeks, As thy making were by God’s artisans.
Your eyes, and the cries you emit, By the graces of angels, By the disgrace of my fallen empire, By the dismay to my withered pride, You are still the only love.
A beauty with bleakness to tress, And red to lips, A beauty with eyes that fall in the idleness of waking, A beauty with no equal, unmatched by makers of newness, For the eyes that I behold are a waiting game.
I look upon them with a face so stern, I look, with the entrancement, The enticement, the amiable nature of my mind, To be pleasant in sight of a one, The nurtured one, the rose in the garden.
You have never been the disappointment, And I never faulted you for any failure.
A beauty with eyes that wait, as I wait, For a death that would make our love finally resting.