Dearest You,
I want you to know that
if you're dying,
I'm posing as the angel
that takes you from here.
I want you to know that
the last face,
I need you to see,
will be one that knows your beauty.
I run alongside you
in the cryptic garden,
of puzzles
and metaphors
hiding each others
pain
with misunderstood words
and double meaning lines.
When you're tired of trembling,
you'll discover
that the actual glorious return
has never been anywhere else
than in my hand.
A black forest,
natural cause and effect,
my hand will hold the seeds
of your thunder
in the flesh.
You know,
my heart must be on
guard for people.
It watches out and strays
away behind a tree
when someone comes near.
Wreathes and squirms
cowering
just enough
to make one believe
my chest
is an funerary object.
But for you,
(And when I say you,
I mean you.)
It dances
to the
beat
of your haikus.
Sobs on the
boundaries
of your art.
It leaps
to the morning
ray of light
that appears
on the nib
of your pen.
On my five
outstretched fingers
all of your elements
conquer
one
another.
They charge in
kicking at my face.
I'm deliriously happy,
yet I say nothing
of what I've gained from you.
Only an idiot
would think
that it would be of any use
to come up with a
barrage of words
to describe gorgeous.
I wouldn't be able to
express my devotion
adequately
if it's not
a union of
flesh
and
blood.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
My collar bone
breaks
at the thought
of you recklessly
throwing yourself
around.
In pieces and frozen with
lymph secretions
and the hated brain.
And it's frightfully cold! -
I search for a
big cooking pot.
Piping hot
and quite delicious!
I will be for you.
Respecfully,
Me.
.. . ... . ..
for
the
lovely
and divine
doll on the rag
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