Longing within Foreign Eyes

It’s the calligraphy of Christ—the deepness of such sorrow.
I long within foreign eyes, blotted within this maze. What
Is this axis, upon the soul, a deadly cry. It’s a marquise cut,
Tearing the heart asunder. It’s a miracle—this love, a
Diamond fable. And I die, spirit upon a stone, wailing to
The winds. Feel me in tears. Console me in passion—that
The miracle may live. For this penchant ache, source of
My daylight; and this penchant sore, source of my magic. 
Thus a sculptress, a midnight vision. I burn for her spirit,
Afloat an illusion. I die, gasping for dreams. And I live,
Cloven with sorrow. What is this symbol, a flaming soul?
It’s a baseborn passion, haunting the psyche. But to forebear
Is to perish; and to live is to perish; and to love is to perish.
Thus I’m graven, adrift a star, longing within foreign eyes.