May love be that broken window,
That airs rage out of the room.
That false smile when rage seethes
And tears burn your heart out of your chest.
Let love be that cold chair of dreams,
Where lovers slept with breath for covers.
May love be a puddle stepped into by many leaving heels,
Love - strumming memories of growing gardens with another.
When your morning breath sings hymns of collapsed aims
This dawn of love, may it be a theatre for repulsed givers,
And sinners who confess each day with violence;
That love is a gift taut with a noose and chimes strung with
symbols.
Slay my flowers with dried sands in my palms, I beg
Soil my alters and blow death to each bone awakened by
brushes.
Words, breath, song; a dirge towards silhouettes of games
Squandered by rivalries beneath the sea of my patience.
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