Passion Defibrillation

Cornerstone

I.
 

You walked regal
   betwixt feral mawars
 and bedim quasar runes...

  folding golden thorns
    tween the sigh of rendaku
as dakuten,

    while disemboweled epiphanies
 fall as satin regret
     within your parched pith
        erecting a rood
of cross referencing
      one sided justification,

like serotonin rimes
     I auscultated;

every sibilant
    you yammered,

contriving,
      quiet tide of mid dim...
  
into origami prophecy,

      rooting itself
as
  eden innocence
in my crestfallen chop ossein.

II.
  
 
Amour can only be
     found once....

   you said,

so I superimposed
        our day-peeps
 in the throat
      of dimmet
rising,

  and whittled them
     into minikin uncials
  as a epode
to the dim hours
    we spent bundled
 as a sole thump;

so that when
    asian pigeon wings bloom
 branching out for del sol,

  I will pocket
       mourning stars
that you branded
    to my lips,

   and heed them
as they euthanize
    the cabal of
 glowing wings,

  from powder crystal
     and comatose drones;
 
murmuring....

      keeping me
   from woolgathering
in the hum
   of swarthy reign.

III.
    
  
You insufflated
     in the residual orisons
that I etched upon our
     chaise side pharos,

    your lungs,

mushroom...
    
     as my costae cage..
undulates,
    
  emaciated for the ardency
    that desiccated
from my pouty labium;

for you,

I eructed  
    the eburneous sighs

and nevus retentive visions
    of our idyll,
  
    in the cubeb apertures
of our connubial frozen stills.

And I can see....
   the 'o' ringed ria
 in the weeping basilica
  
on the other side
   blowing soundless sertraline
 concussive cuneiform in the air--

     spherical and herniated-
 like the grey of my atrium.

IV.
    

   We danced....
till the narcotics
   of our consecrated bond
crumbled,

to form dramamine lullabies
    across your portraits
that I shaded
    with every heaving breath
and an orphaned solar plexus,

        I still cite the birr
     of our eiderdown entwinement,
    
   and the vagalumes
from our first night
     that jeopardized
 the thesis deep within
our mimeographed,

pangea.


V.
    

    All I know now,

are the magic number gifts....
      that you hid
beneath my pillow,
    
so that when I sleep,
      
my spine would respire them
   and become a clowned clone of you...

     so you may chronicle me
as a magnum opus
   that you concocted
from your snafu.

VI.


But....amour,
    can only be found
once,  

       so I'll ride and swallow
    your exhaled epitaph
 that's inscribed
    as a gloaming exit wound,

in the wilted grail
  of a ruptured glutton;

 my halvah....
    
I learnt the lesson
   of becoming a  
        
fettered....

   ignis fatuus.