Years neglect how she became my muse
until her eyes tore through the shrouds
of all I had come to call empyrean earth.
Now each step engulfs her loveless being,
and waters wash away the strongest walls,
each held the sanity before, Bastille amour.
Bleeding sooner than death can swing her scythe,
to show me there is no hope in insignificance,
rain howled early into night. Sullen winds
which wake the worst in your forgiveness,
spite proposed, across a heart fit to break.
Was Porphyria’s Lover always our poem?
Etched between the fragmented dreams.
I sense her in every crushing heart beat,
every pleading cave that draws us in to drown.
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss
I propped up our love before old ghosts,
screaming through the fractures of distance:
“Here I am! Feel me beating!
Because without you each collapsing second
resonates that I was the fool, and all I try to be,
behind the pain I threw in your direction, lies
in the hues of blackholes and solitude.”
And thus we sit together now,
and all night long we have not stirred,
and yet God has not said a word! *