Tue, 04/18/2017 - 17:58 -- DeBrock

Comb through your luscious, red hair,

And find me lying amidst those tongues of fire,

Betwixt the very sand and sky—

I could just cry,

For in due time,

I’ll fall for human physiognomy,

And at that moment,

In that little imp of time,

My very eyes seek another form,

From the head, to the toes,

Perfection is but all I ask,

Yet I ask the impossible,

I cannot have my petit angé

No matter the cumulative amount of time I wait,

I suppose I am negatively influenced by the lie,

That worldly lie that pulled the Gabardine straight over mine eyes­—  

And tied into place—

Amidst torn sheets,

And what’s left of your clothes,

There lies a lake of Crimson,

And once I had discovered it,

Dementedness set in.

Then sadness.

Then the hanging stench of death—

Stay away,

Just stay away from me—

A human being as you,

You are so perfect, yet so imperfect.

Your hair is like the light that shows me the things I have lost.

Your eyes remind me vastly of my mothers,

Are you in touch with reality?

Your mind it seems lost in another place,

Another space, so far away.

In another land perhaps one we have not yet discovered—

The sheets we have not yet uncovered—

Are you bone of my bone, and flesh of my flesh?

Please do bless me in your youth,

Oh, please do,

For we are young, with a lot of life to live,

And much love to give,

So we as humans do have a choice,

To rejoice in the sins and revelry of our predecessors,

Or to change the way we interrelate,

To undergo metamorphosis,

In phrase of Idiosyncratic measures,

Or defined jaunts of pleasure,

Or whomever it may befall.

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