it is a howling rhetoric
sure to shore the whole of defenses
and still divinely love
I am cryptic, stilling the (im)moral urge
to undo you
your spell, too profound for my
words.
I have only wanted
a love story, my dear
not all these warm-ups
which were practice
for a swollen heart
whose chasm is unheard
and whose
echo
is dead
no
one solid
requiem
mocked
by an ever and eternal resurrection
Oh, My Love
I have longed to feel that thing
which hinges on nothing
but on which all hinges
I have begged
in the market
for a spear
to purse my stilted corpse
its wound like one great ark of hurt
I cannot spill my blood
even
for which martyr
could do that?
my only altar
is you
from which I sweep my tears
and return my jewels
onto what I scroll my heart
and still
these steps, like third worlds
who and what contain them?
build them
break them?
my journey to you
lies on a broken heel and hell of sorrow
all works conform to your grave
and
turning and tilling
I find your soul
the lamplight
in my cave
your heavenly castle
is but the next stair
and all I have started and stated
fades away
it is ample
this rock, staff, reed
I am full of what a wedding
would be
but
I am not
getting married
so
my dear
how can you stand me
sobbing in your bouquet?
how can you steady my butchery?
I have lived
to stop writing
to him
and
WRITE ONLY TO YOU
it is a stretch of imagination's skin
to crop a world
and paste it back
to
the
Beginner
all my salt worth like a stubborn drowning chalk
this time
I will give the love letter
to Him
which appreciates
my chivalry
and awkwardness
I am made aware
by my daily begging
that the altar
is
not
the love
but You
on which I put
all of me
where love burns all these words
Deliver me,
Your Beloved
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