La pluie a construit sa maison en toi, Mon Amour

Drawing back 

in a mesh of disease,  

puddling Sunday's memory,

I remember being of

the ill as the pleased with being both

misunderstood as

underwhelmed 

Lions lie still so

long enough to drink their clap-jawed valley

a simplicity as no lack in language might

presume

or in the mere willingness to feed me my reflections 

you've too long failed the very 

rain inside of you as well

Yet, by some gracious lie, 

this world from worlds must try,

I praise my aim with hemorrhage in search for 

les fleurs en feu

Owl-backed wingstress

dear Russian lover

claw your way from death

sadder eyes dissevered I think I've never seen 

yet awake as asleep from their ivory of fury 

You've burned as if in ode

stole a stolen name off a grave 

and walked on

The woman was by nothing 

as slept in better days and still

your blinded pittle of age plays on

 

I learned in such a life 

you must dance with the face in the window 

and walk as if in cure thru poison’s wit

then try no retrieve from what is woven 

for nothing fails between the lines 

Here, by some wizard's gin 

I compel these days alone

step as carry ill no mark  

then arch the bow for heaven 

when necessary 

draw my sword for the search in rain 

only

I speak where only water compels to whisper 

and I do regard the sun my faithful clown

but the rain has built its home inside of

you, my love

So I must pray your iris to respond 

A thistle of soul, a bit of smoke, then

a growl to carry across by breeze,

go find your May of fools, 

best as thorns in thorns will do

but someday soon, come the dust off January, 

close my lids and pour through cold lips a final whisper 

"Au diable de partir"