Death and Other Love Songs

A
parade is static
parallels
to the parramatta of our words.
That come
and go in lay lines
with gradual departed struts.
Running
in feathered dreams,
we loved
in simple drops and streams.
Evaporated by other means.
Where did our ending go?

There
was never a coach for such misdeeds,
I couldn’t
save you, and observed the world become
the sepulchre in which we fought our eldritch clause.
Fear
and anger
that took advantage of bonds on zephyr.
And still
we cling and cannot relinquish.
While you
share your bed in another woe.
Yet am I supernatural?

Destined
to remain the mask of death
as you
are there in all the glory
of our moribund crescendo.
“We are still soulmates,”
you attest,
filled again and again by others.
But me,
I wait.
Draped in shroud desires
to cleave
that face from your memory.
Watch him fall
and tumble into that apathetic wake.
Never
to gaze upon my deathly siren once more.

The empty blues
and Parisian noose.
Tunnels to our abyss.
Our love
is more fierce than youths lust.
But feeling nothing,
we become
dust
to dust and other love songs.
Playing our tune
on time-worn hearts.
When all you see is I.
The providence of our affections,
to love no other,
but always die
in another’s empty world…

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