Bouquet of sins

 

When love lets us suffer, poetry brings us back-

A ballad is not just a poem or an experience, but pieces
of our souls bled onto paper like a virgin whore
on tainted linens. Or perhaps it is the sorrow
of a woman of night, burdened with the name of a saint.
She is no saint and deviant perversions are her refuge
as her humanity becomes lost in the apogee
of demand.

Her heart still beats
and I weep for us both.

I see beauty and it is my curse to see the world
through too many pairs of eyes. They are my passion,
my addiction and I want to compose them on
canvas painted colorfields to adorn
the emotion hidden behind every shade
of living rondure, with sketchbook
and carbon sunbeams.

Seduced by a storm of flame
and umber, I fell into the lurid haze
of my lover's watch. I stood in the eye
of the storm and savored the taste of ash
on the wind, desperate to be carried
in the gales of untamed romance.

My heart still beats
and the sky weeps for us both.