Widowed night, moonless tide, what have you to bare with me in silence? Have you bundled dreams that wash memory lane with heavy, steady rain? Have you the unfortunate hooks that hang from cadaver eyes, catching my consciousness to convenient bloodshot reveries?
Tonight my hands are oft' cold, midnight! Alas! Tonight I inhale ice chilled lonesomeness, the kind you abandon under starlit floods, wet with melancholy. The floods that apt' to often drown me without mercy. They come full swell saying "We've no tears for saints of the unknown! Fore warned: we shall resuscitate your suffering!"
How can we come to ends with our deceit? Can we pardon our clothes and embrace our naked corpses as one? Can we die together again? Midnight, I have a lust for you; can we pair and gestate dreams? No more questions, Love, I have so many things to say!
I want to say that you are cruel, pitch lover! You banish my passions and beg that I come into submission. You would have me caress you with peace at the fingered tips, wilting away my friendly heartache with soothed syllables that you've strung together like rows of street-lamps. You know my soft spots, they are the only parts you touch, seductive midnight. Oh you, and a falling out to find you! I cannot say I am not yours.
Take me then, Widowed Eve, for the sun has run from you!
I Am Here,