He lies awake staring into a love without a form of reality; a tyrant love that will drive the hearts of men away.
He sprinkles moist honey atop poppy-seeds
for the slumber that will bring the hearts he summons at the witching hour together
with string, a sewing needle, and photographs.
He wishes for a raging love that surges and swells at the sight of him.
But, he was no beauty.
His mind was filled with the tides of wrath in the sea;
and to this he outstretched his arms toward the shore.
He dreams of the monsters with the lolling neck, long and craned. It vomits man's blood, morsets mixed with gorey wine. But again, it munched on warm bloodied joints and ligaments- quivering betwixt its teeth.
... and with his anxious eyes of sorrow and remorse, he finally wakes. He goes right back to yearning with boyish love.
But every Night slumber must bedew his weary limbs and he Knows he cannot be loved as he loves.
