A light is prostrated in the scope of my malignancy
And that doubtlessly recalls me of my plans to have you once more
Thither back in the dark, as I remembered having a first bite
Upon your flesh, almost candid and quite impartial in the night.
And early at the corners of those warm black alleys of ours
In that garden filled with reason, air all-around
Whence I usually shy my lames and shy my farewells from the crowd
And for what I shall wait and again until the next black Sunday.
What could be worst in this degrading laugh of love?
Would this be the much we have been waiting for or just
The desperado pronto within tears of joy and scrutiny?
Up at the utmost of me, of us, I shall cry tonight on your absence...
And this lethargic permanence should probably twist in my pain
So much lesser than yours and this sweet perfume left after your non-appearance.
And I wish I could be there with you now but my screams
Poor and weak, should so full of certitude not reach your whereabouts
And my flowers are overweening poison, overwhelmed with anger
And the seeds we planted, still there. Awaiting...
If I could just tell you a second I would kill the clock and remain
your legs, head poised upon your dream-temperate ventral
Bellowing the sound of life, listening to the rare theft nature of you
Dear always mine.
