no more criss-cross'd arrows, no more bottles upon the sea
with tiny ships that once carried antiqued love notes
straight to the shore in me.
now our bleeding hearts writhe in tree trunks, or strive to hang upon a hook
keyholes burned upon the flesh is flesh is fleshisflesh ...
like a lock on a leatherbound book
where all pages are white and empty, although a story stays inside,
for between the seemingly blank tender leaves
our silent tragic epic lies.
are we not the unsung heroes?
are we not a desert's shell?
are we not fallen angels written in a volume
entombed in the ice of hell?
yet i'd choose to remain in the City of Dis
for the ages to ponder the truth in that kiss.