In the coffer and ready! With my beloved who isn't there!
And just can't be. Not even dead, just a cerebral maelstrom taunting the soul.
Out yonder far out into the sea where there is nothing, but the endless tumultuous waves hurrying in the mind! On a wasted isle near, to no watch tower, there. Drunk on the afterthoughts that fill my desperation with regret!
Later than yesterday, only indifference waits at the doorway.
Where was she, but in my very spirit, attending in cloister, inside the bowels of my own Hell! Damp with her own sweat from teasing. Moistened by stone tears without regret, pardoned with God's forgiveness.
Now a church goer!
A witch but only mine, invented within my hurting entrails. Stars that sent into my brain sulfur and brimstone, that sort of soot that can veil wearied eyes that dreamt aloud. Preventing clairvoyance!
There is no she but yourself who lingers, patiently. A soul like yours but made of you, healing the bleeding rupture in the clouds of your inner heaven. Holding in place in its own distraught sacred head, your very visage, enamored!
But you. Again. Waiting in eternity.
** * ** **
You. And no one else, can be there! Your inside beauty guiding the wonderful noble mind.
There is no mortal facsimile could deceive the honorable onlooker who heeds nothing that could come from atoms of dust and mud. It is his own internal restless nature pushes him on. Into the abyss.
He becomes a plaything to himself. And mortal woman still needs a Soul!
What is quaint for a vulgar man, is the marvelous beauty of the Tree, your forefathers were killed for without shame, but save for those tears come from a down trodden knight, in his grave, alone with his soul-heart in Paradise.
In the coffer with my beloved who's just not there. In the Polar star, watching me come.
