Songs sung white with eld,
I sunder your voice,
And share it into my empty pockets,
My eardrums now beat in accordance.
In those verdant euphonies,
Was an alluring piquancy,
Lest I cosset bosom and loin,
As you’re vacuous in advent.
I rocked my cradle back and forth;
The coition with dissonant lovers.
It broke from the numbers,
But it wasn’t you.
We danced in my mother’s garden,
Where sowed is my quintessance.
In the obsidian rosettes you cull,
Are moieties of yours truly.
I wade in corpus,
Finished from your insides,
The genuine taste of palpable hallucinations,
In it, I long to die.
I inscribe psalms in poems,
Beauties of your periphery; the dimensions,
A hymn about your insides and outsides,
I’m entangled in perpertuum.
For in beauty are dimensions,
Poets will never fathom,
For it’s never about love,
But falling in love.
– Smyekh David-West.