Fated Wrists

I spoke—a woman’s love. How dare I compose infinity, as
Sacred as divinity? My crying love—the diamond bleeds.
Grip soul, my dying love. The walls have spoken secrets:
The rugs—stained with tears; and still, we love depth the
Lion’s den. I’m rising, my love: the future, a sutured
Wound; but destiny, a crooked reverend, a bias judge.
And piercing soul, my falling love, a waking apex. We
Collapse, a heaving chest—and my love, sex—our saving
Ecstasy. Cast a prayer, my brilliant wound, for I suffocated
Spirit. And bleeding eyes, a portrait—my soul. I’m seeing
Visions, my love. We scorched a dream—and tortured
The tent of love. Thus, the soils perish, the roots cough
Up ghosts—with nails digging flesh: the blood trickles;
The madness roars; and we part fated wrists.