My Writings

In Love, In Vain

in love, we speak in vain

of God’s name,

darling, recite me a verse

in bleeding fingers,

write me some agony

inked in infamy,

a tale of singed lovers

in embers they hover,

above valleys holy,

are skies of lies and folly,

that home clouds divine,

building bleeding shrines

like the Sistine

in bricks and stones pristine,

towering up the rainbows

an arrow of golden glow,

tearing holy love apart,

splattering blood in art,

a tale of lovers forlorn

walking on glass alone

through acts of God,

to survive one can’t afford,

darling, lovers disappear

into voids of visceral tears

in this verse of love,

that we speak of, in vain, love,

is it God or I

whose name you speak as we die

in love

Things I write when I can’t write

I think wishes are like love:

False.

Who am I to cage poetry?

Caged, she hath me.

It must be death

to be not with you but your memory

It must be death.

Must I show you who I am without you?

don’t you see already? i am no longer truth.

I am but a wish: unfulfilled.

You and I have nothing to give

We took it all ourselves.

Love takes it all itself.

Maybe some types of love are written in distance.

They remain distant.

Poetry is deathly.

So is memory. Yours and mine.

Is it still you living in me? Or just the verse you birthed before dying?

What died? I think us.

I think everything

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