If wine is mouth and love is eye
and William Yeat’s was made to sigh,
than I have loved your sight till blind
and drank myself out of my mind,
but I find no ease, love, or drink
I will predict that all could end.
That time should slip
and suns should burn
There is a language dead
that grips the heart
from deep within its crypt.
She says she is always there,
and I am always here,
so how is it
that five miles can feel
an oceans worth of divide.
I want you to carry my eggs;
I trust you and the care that you take,
yet I know that you are afraid,
I wished that love
was not far-flung
as foreign coasts
There is a gypsy in her hair;
a place where I slip off to breath,
a paradise of spring and new born things,
a playground made of laughter’s glee.
Do not fall for a man like me
I am not blind; I do not see.
I am the reason storms have names
and tell the head that it is truly mad,
mixed up and made for something closer to art
When among the trees will autumn come?
What multitude of words will I have lost
among the soft-dying of sweet summer poppies
The heart is a hunter searching
before the dead of winter has melted;
Should my heart suddenly explode
and cease it’s earthly needs,
and being stubborn leave for me
I wished to see your smile,
but got only pain the while—
Sometimes love is cliché.
Damn the cost of being so young,
Around her I was Icarus
with wings alight and burnt to nubs,
now glowing as embers and garnets
as I slowly descend into the adjust
of knowing there is no longer an us
and longing to submit to the plunge.