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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