Never The Paramour

I’m in love with the coldness,

the void

the dark.

Where consciousness goes to be lit afire.

To warm the grieving and afflicted.

If only desire were so easily catered and cauterized.

Bemusing the simple-minded eternally into a catatonic droning.

Never to be filched by serrated hands and tongue lashings of embryonic succor.

I’m in leave with the balminess,

the attainable,

the light.

Forever a parable,

never a soliloquy.

With regards to requiems and elegies.

Crumbling effigies turn to mountains of cascading memories.

We drown.

Decay.

Dilute.

Defy.

Never rationalizing our true attempts.

Always the victim and never the paramour.

Never the aspiration or assertion.

To be left gazing along the rows of tombstones.

Looking for a space to rent your haunting.

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