The Latin isn't Important

Dum spiro spero,
Cause I know that you’re there,
In that lakeside gambling town,
Counting  days on too few fingers,
Just like me.

Speak-spitting a phrase,
An exhale that reeks of hope
and cigarettes,
Navigating the terror of five days
Of glorious life,
Followed by nothing,
A gaping wound seeping like red-red-blood,
Or ink,
Causing a throbbing pain that beats you down,
Again and again,
But that throb becomes the beat
for your heartfelt refrain
Resounding pain,
Making for a heartfelt anticipation.

In amo veritas,
Hanging on at the last,
Pounding,
At that perfect foundling,
The orphan-god,
That makes up a certain portion of the whole,
Absent,
Leaving different kind of hole,
Call me a prophet,
‘Cause I only speak the truth,
And I’ve been convinced by my youth,
That love holds the only such thing.

Ride
In spite
 of the ferocity
Viscosity of agonizing separation,
Separation is a bitch,
Just like rooftop-Claire.