I have to go again, go to where the rocks are sick, how the mountains crack from sadness. The people here among you are lost and far from love, bronze ornate caskets and wicked wild blue tongues flickering in the twilight like a candle in a bottomless crypt. They cut teeth, newborns among the wolves, faggot poets, glass bodies, nigger treasures around their necks, white and frosted pines and fireflies in the humid season, the cyclic death of me.
At first it was burned out Afghan craters among the vicious debris, small Syrian skeletons and holes in the roof somewhere near Libya. A truckload of Lebanese blonde flowers and fresh red dirt for the dead, your face like a poem, you cry with a pensive gaze, in the gloaming you walked by countless faces, no one took a second glance, not one look, by midnight I see their eyes, they are as dark as I imagined.
Lastly the years fall under the irradiated and toxic flood of harmful stars and now their milky eyes never leave you. Bright lavender veils are your favorite, smoky vapor and downcast topaz among your traffic ruins and opaque charms, the ugly sun-bleached bones, empty, hollow, palsied people on the outside, no start, no end. An overcast snow-globe, a quiet place where only you and I can go, it's made of breath, a place where we reign together. Your melancholy eyes never dry. Your unbearable loneliness, I watch you every waking day and night, I never sleep. The bridge and tossed, mournful rocks, the oily black water your only embrace, a mute place where the outer darkness never dissolves into daylight.