It’s not hard to find—the feeling
uninvited, blushing behind
those fingers (two lips concealing
a wail two fingers cannot bind)—
exhale the shards, those clouds mirroring
the splintered sighs wounded by Time;
weep in laboured speech, not of things
savoured, but the weakness of our kind.
Great triangulations tracing
each our tarnished hearts, hands, and minds,
lay the course we survived, nearing
the frontier the greed of each twined—
the veneer peeled by the coiling
walk in darkness moonlight enshrined—
it’s not hard to find; soiled with sin,
our lot is that which base desires line.
Draped in the cloak of utmost peace,
demons fighting in formation
each recede like tears to their crease,
unfolding our demarcation;
on a whisper from driest east
flies across the page’s face in
tempestuous haste, silent pleas
of a suitor trying to s(l)ay (t)him.
Pyramids in pieces paper
the walls flowering deep inside
my tenement heart’s dark acre
each time our glances coincide;
sir, they’ve no chance to take what (y)our
survey confirmed and prophesied—
love laces not only neighbours,
but painters, to what nature denied.