My muse, my cloak – when you’re here beside me,
Think of these shadows you cast upon me, out of a smothered light
Are forbidden pleasures of yours as much as can be.
Like a glove you love to wrap me within your might.
Your stare stoutly stepping into my timid eyes.
Your pleasures will be a gripping vice.
Your voice raspy, though I am faint:
You’re elated, my flesh is as cold as ice,
You’re elated that you’ve martyred a saint.
Soon you’ll walk into the walls of my frozen eyelids.
You’re desolate empathy, your sensual suppressions,
Fade the crimson line between holiness and perdition.
You believe my eyesight to be blinded beneath snow,
And the beauties of the dark you so often mention
Infuriates me to know.
Nightly I feel I will wander
Beneath the manias of your winter cloak
As I look up and watch your eyes glimmer,
But oh, it’d be suicide to charge towards the warmth over the murky moat,
And impale myself against the piety your eyes so merely flicker.
