And in her voice; I descend again
but not forsaken at the edges of the world;
I find myself in chains but not of damnation’s
make; I walk the edges of an unclean spoke,
At the fringes of my guidance there is a
purity of thought; and consciousness survival
takes its toll; every inch of me in her
inclusive grasp; every ounce is swollen
up to burst.
Tonight we’ll wage our war; and every citizen
be sick with madness when we come, our hands
untied and our unruly minds, unraveled for the
beating of our hearts; when insanity strike;
put forth a word of vengeance through our
breadth and width; and seize the captives
that remain in you and me.
I long for you, my desirous breath; held hope
in your return upon my wooden planks; where you
shall abide within these walls and without
sustenance; the crow calls late for your arrival.
Enter me now, enter in; it’s our survival.
the gaze she gives without asking forgiveness;
her white skin; and severed heart without chance
of redemption. My eyes, fixed beneath her foul wings;
and in the darkness, driving her to sin’s anticipation;
she seizes me.
Without the drum of hearing howling out beneath my
mourning call; without chance of resurrection to the
days that have transpired; without my window’s perch
to lie upon and sing into her ears from this cold
distance, we lie; each in our own hearing; each with
our own song to sing the night.
Into another puncture and I bleed;
into the arms of saviour’s smile;
rocked back and forth for hours,
until the separation’s sour dismissal;
we talk through poison’s subtle stain,
as was rehearsed for our dismay.
Oh, come into the capitol; oh, come;
reduced to innocent foray; oh, come;
and bleed with where we spoke addressed;
I bed your arrogance and bid the
White halls washed throughout;
saturated with the stain of our undenial.
This survival instinct, these seven winds that
bleed upon my back; this dire wandering through
mud and ash and flame; I reach myself and my
surroundings to your grace, sweet angel of the
dark; I reach and catapult my belonging.
Your dusty wings grow tired of my song;
and seven heavens speak of what I’ve lost;
and in the sickened frost I bear upon my bite;
I close the doors with contemptual surround sound.
pool across my face while I succumb;
and I will drink the drops of your arrival.
You throw back your love; into the pool of its survival;
all hoping hands against your wind’s edge cut down.
Betrothed to your ancestor’s soft, intuitive gaze;
you throw me down, unshackling me mirth; I hold you
in high regard; I drive the nails that spite you,
I usher in the cavity of your confession.
Driven to the outskirts; where one can see everything.
I ride upon the parapet of our undoing.
With our intended feasting, we should pursue
our own desires, each in their turn; I’ll hold
you down and taste the sour swelling in your womb;
and in tomorrow’s anticipation for the next turn
of the sun and moon; we’ll wake each other
the way we used to;
Forsaken; and upturned in a dream; unfastened;
from the seat you left me in; I want to try
again to place you next to me in our retreat;
to taste again the honey of our love.