My heart's where your wild dreams go to die,
A purgatorial region where thoughts
Are given the option to run high. My
Love, for I think of thee as he who lofts
In luster, yet forgive me for this point,
I let your eyes anoint my mind and
As your heavy ordeal consecrated
That this is. Is this that, that we speak of?
My thoughts aren't controlled, only by
The agony-ache of ardor, itself.
At least from my perspective, I can say
I'm finally joyous, but what is the future?
I'm traumatized by love, not disaster,
It's not delinquency on stained glass.
