A Love Song
You bring the emblems
(icons of your desire),
satiate my id,
stroke softly on my needs;
you are an ergot
that trips me into sleep;
a passion fugue.
It could be heroin,
this visceral pull
into these brief moments
out of my body,
a fetus on the town,
deep insanity,
close to the blade.
You speak, and I taste
bitter almond in my
resolve to not hear.
It is by your power.
And the noise of joy,
that song of equal depth
and mass, is sung.
Our bonding comes in waves.
I fight my conflict
(my head on my pillow
has lost all respect,
will shun sympathy, for
the soul entrapped by
affinity).
Your eyes drive it out.
I want you to be blind
to the adventure,
to the pride that tries to
beat your love away,
tries to draw you from the
masque your soul hosts.
Yet my larceny,
be it born from fearful
memory, is weak.
My rituals are all
exposed to you for
the drifting lies they are.
You know my vice.
So you breathe the breeze
and it betrays my spine,
and I feel the boom,
the demise of my wall.
I have gone to trial --
you have found me guilty.
Now, denouement.
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The illustration, Love Songed, by K.L.Storer.
© K.L.Storer, all rights reserved.
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