Acquiescence
Your tongue becomes
an echo of your anguish,
an extension of your lament.
It is, in truth, a mendacious tongue,
which whittles profound truths until
they are reduced to simple understandings,
in the same way the hours are bitten,
scattered into wild fragments,
and rewoven into fresh, dreamlike time.
Our restless thoughts writhe within
our darkness and our acquiescence.
Our domains flow into a shared space.
The light swirls upon our spent beings
in every shade of crimson.
We treasure one another in our slumber.
Appassionata
Nestled within, the piano preserves
Beethoven's Appassionata.
The piano keys are innocent teeth,
biting and tearing through the melody
into tones:
allegro assai,
andante con moto — attacca,
allegro, ma non troppo,
presto.
We absorb those resonances
while loving endlessly
in that stream of existence
flowing in torrents.
Sometimes, our sentiments are orchids,
and at other times, they are simply
command and dominion
of something
which captures
the discord
between radiance and menace.
Out of nowhere,
I love you,
and I have no need to redefine these words.
No comments:
Post a Comment