It’s the Waves, my Love

It’s the waves, my love. They speak the paradise of wounds.
And the yoke of ardor, my darkest light. But I’m falling, the
Birth of death. And volcanic ash, the width of such love.
But the birth of flame, alive—my streaming heart. And the
Ache of love, the sound of silence. Thus the thunder, my
Quaking loins; and thus the lightning, our quaking souls. Hence
The magic, a quilted death. But depth the soul, a living curse.
And thus sublime, our wounded dreams.   

It’s the waves, my love. They speak the paradise of wounds.
And the thirst for poison, our mortal flame. For rich with life,
Our spiritual sword. Thus the passion, sheer invasion; and thus
The music, ecstatic scars. Hence the pleasure, a mixture of pain.
But picture love, a web of portraits. Thus aflame, our tethered
Souls; and thus adrift, our sated hearts.