to arm or to disarm,
a problem of violence,
i am a prisoner to perception,
and your eyes are the bars of my cell.
in the darkest of nights,
my face is but a mirror,
giving everything away,
showing you my ace, and more disastrously,
my heart in all its grand debility.
be still, i know you,
frantic though your body may seem,
tranquil is your soul and, Baby,
calm as a guru is your gaze.
i used to know what life was about,
which Girls to take, which Drugs to avoid,
and it seems as though our pattern is coalescing,
into some infinite series of gasps and pauses,
no substance, just some shadow of truth,
anything else,
a caricature of intimacy,
a puppet-show lust,
wrapped in a blanket of tears,
awaiting a latent transformation
which will forever wait in the wings.
warm, i will keep you, Baby,
as we wait forever,
if only your weathered hands would feel my face,
as if i meant something,
and if only my heart, solemn as a stoic monk,
would leap from its cradle,
crying all the way down an abyss
of ecstatic joy,
our unfaithful lips fused at the edges.
God's unholy vengeance,
is apathy in response.
